"I never thought you would mind that," said Kate, rather abashed. "I never did; and I never saw my papa or mamma either."
"No--so you didn't care."
"Well then," said Kate gravely, "we won't play at that. Let's have 'Marmion' instead; and I'll be killed."
"But I don't like you to be killed."
"It is only in play."
"Please--please, let us have a nice play!"
"Well, what do you call a nice play?"
"Alice and I used to drive hoops."
"That's tiresome! My hoop always tumbles down: think of something else."
"Alice and I used to play at ball; but there's no ball here!"
"Then I'll stuff my pocket-handkerchief with seaweed, and make one;" and Kate spread out her delicate cambric one--not quite so fit for such a purpose as the little cheap cotton ones at home, that Mary tried in vain to save from cruel misuse.
"Here's a famous piece! Look, it is all wriggled; it is a mermaid's old stay-lace that she has used and thrown away. Perhaps she broke it in a passion because her grandmother made her wear so many oyster- shells on her tail!"
"There are no such creatures as mermaids," said Sylvia, looking at her solemnly.
This was not a promising beginning; Sylvia Joanna was not a bit like Sylvia Katharine, nor like Adelaide and Grace de la Poer; yet by seeing each other every day, she and Kate began to shake together, and become friends.
There was no fear of her exciting Kate to run wild; she was a little pussy-cat in her dread of wet, and guarded her clothes as if they could feel--indeed, her happiest moments were spent in the public walks by Alice's chair, studying how the people were dressed; but still she thought it a fine thing to be the only child in Bournemouth who might play with the little Countess, and was so silly as to think the others envied her when she was dragged and ordered about, bewildered by Kate's loud rapid talk about all kinds of odd things in books, and distressed at being called on to tear through the pine- woods, or grub in wet sand. But it was not all silly vanity: she was a gentle, loving little girl, very good-natured, and sure to get fond of all who were kind to her; and she liked Kate's bright ways and amusing manner--perhaps really liking her more than if she had understood her better; and Kate liked her, and rushed after her on every occasion, as the one creature with whom it was possible to play and to chatter.
No, not quite the one; for poor sick Alice was better for talk and quiet play than her sister. She read a great deal; and there was an exchange of story-books, and much conversation over them, between her and Kate--indeed, the spirit and animation of this new friend quite made her light up, and brighten out of her languor whenever the shrill laughing voice came near. And Kate, after having got over her first awe at coming near a child so unlike herself, grew very fond of her, and felt how good and sweet and patient she was. She never ran off to play till Alice was taken in-doors; and spent all her spare time in-doors in drawing picture stories, which were daily explained to the two sisters at some seat in the pine-woods.
There was one very grand one, that lasted all the latter part of the stay at Bournemouth--as the evenings grew longer, and Kate had more time for preparing it, at the rate of four or five scenes a day, drawn and painted--being the career of a very good little girl, whose parents were killed in a railway accident, (a most fearful picture was that--all blunders being filled up by spots of vermilion blood and orange-coloured flame!) and then came all the wonderful exertions by which she maintained her brothers and sisters, taught them, and kept them in order.
They all had names; and there was a naughty little Alexander, whose monkey tricks made even Sylvia laugh. Sylvia was very anxious that the admirable heroine, Hilda, should be rewarded by turning into a countess; and could not enter into Kate's first objection--founded on fact--that it could not be without killing all the brothers. "Why couldn't it be done in play, like so many other things?" To which Kate answered, "There is a sort of true in play;" but as Sylvia could not understand her, nor she herself get at her own idea, she went on to her other objection, a still more startling one--that "She couldn't wish Hilda anything so nasty!"
And this very ignoble word was long a puzzle to Alice and Sylvia.
Thus the time at the sea-side was very happy--quite the happiest since Kate's change of fortune. The one flaw in those times on the sands was when she was alone with Sylvia and Josephine; not in Sylvia's dulness--that she had ceased to care about--but in a little want of plain dealing. Sylvia was never wild or rude, but she was not strictly obedient when out of sight; and when Kate was shocked would call it very unkind, and caress and beseech her not to tell.
They were such tiny things, that they would hardly bear mention; but one will do as a specimen. Sylvia was one of those very caressing children who can never be happy without clinging to their friends, kissing them constantly, and always calling them dear, love, and darling.
Now, Mrs. Wardour knew it was not becoming to see all this embracing in public, and was sure besides that Lady Barbara would not like to see the Countess hung upon in Sylvia's favourite way; so she forbade all such demonstrations except the parting and meeting kiss. It was a terrible grievance to Sylvia--it seemed as if her heart could not love without her touch; but instead of training herself in a little self-control and obedience, she thought it "cross;" and Mamma was no sooner out of sight than her arm was around Kate's waist. Kate struggled at first--it did not suit her honourable conscientiousness; but then Sylvia would begin to cry at the unkindness, say Kate did not love her, that she would not be proud if she was a countess: and Kate gave in, liked the love--of which, poor child! she got so little--and let Sylvia do as she pleased, but never without a sense of disobedience and dread of being caught.
So, too, about her title. Sylvia called her darling, duck, and love, and she called Sylvia by plenty of such names; but she had been obliged to tell of her aunt's desire--that Katharine and Kate should never be used.
Sylvia's ready tears fell; but the next day she came back cheerful, with the great discovery that darling Lady Caergwent might be called K, her initial, and the first syllable of her title. It was the cleverest invention Sylvia had ever made; and she was vexed when Kate demurred, honestly thinking that her aunts would like it worse than even Kate, and that therefore she ought not to consent.
But when Sylvia coaxingly uttered, "My own dear duck of a K," and the soft warm arm squeezed her, and the eyes would have been weeping, and the tongue reproaching in another moment, she allowed it to go on--it was so precious and sweet to be loved; and she told Sylvia she was a star in the dark night.
No one ever found out those, and one or two other, instances of small disobedience. They were not mischievous, Josephine willingly overlooked them, and there was nothing to bring them to light. It would have been better for Sylvia if her faults had been of a sort that brought attention on them more easily!
Meanwhile, Lady Barbara had almost found in her a model child--except for her foolish shy silence before her elders, before whom she always whispered--and freely let the girls be constantly together. The aunt little knew that this meek well-behaved maiden was giving the first warp to that upright truth that had been the one sterling point of Kate's character!
CHAPTER X.
It had been intended that Mrs. Lacy should rejoin her pupil at Bournemouth at the end of six weeks; but in her stead came a letter saying that she was unwell, and begging for a fortnight's grace. At the fortnight's end came another letter; to which Lady Barbara answered that all was going on so well, that there was no need to think of returning till they should all meet in London on the 1st of October.
But before that 1st, poor Mrs. Lacy wrote again, with great regret and many excuses for the inconvenience she was causing. Her son and her doctor had insisted on her resigning her situation at once; and they would not even allow her to go back until her place could be supplied.
"Poor thing!" said Lady Jane. "I always thought it was too much for her. I wish we could have made
her more comfortable: it would have been such a thing for her!"
"So it would," answered Lady Barbara, "if she had had to do with any other child. A little consideration or discretion, such as might have been expected from a girl of eleven years old towards a person in her circumstances, would have made her happy, and enabled her to assist her son. But I have given up expecting feeling from Katharine."
That speech made Kate swell with anger at her aunt's tone and in her anger she forgot to repent of having been really thoughtless and almost unkind, or to recollect how differently her own gentle Sylvia at home would have behaved to the poor lady. She liked the notion of novelty, and hoped for a new governess as kind and bright as Miss Oswald.
Moreover, she was delighted to find that Mrs. George Wardour was going to live in London for the present, that Alice might be under doctors, and Sylvia under masters. Kate cared little for the why, but was excessively delighted with plans for meeting, hopes of walks, talks, and tea-drinkings together; promises that the other dear Sylvia should come to meet her; and above all, an invitation to spend Sylvia Joanna's birthday with her on the 21st of October, and go all together either to the Zoological Gardens or to the British Museum, according to the weather.
With these hopes, Kate was only moderately sorry to leave the sea and pine-trees behind her, and find herself once more steaming back to London, carrying in her hand a fine blue and white travelling-bag, worked for her by her two little friends, but at which Lady Barbara had coughed rather dryly. In the bag were a great many small white shells done up in twists of paper, that pretty story "The Blue Ribbons," and a small blank book, in which, whenever the train stopped, Kate wrote with all her might. For Kate had a desire to convince Sylvia Joanna that one was much happier without being a countess, and she thought this could be done very touchingly and poetically by a fable in verse; so she thought she had a very good idea by changing the old daisy that pined for transplantation and found it very unpleasant, into a harebell.
A harebell blue on a tuft of moss In the wind her bells did toss.
That was her beginning; and the poor harebell was to get into a hot- house, where they wanted to turn her into a tall stately campanula, and she went through a great deal from the gardeners. There was to be a pretty fairy picture to every verse; and it would make a charming birthday present, much nicer than anything that could be bought; and Kate kept on smiling to herself as the drawings came before her mind's eye, and the rhymes to her mind's ear.
So they came home; but it was odd, the old temper of the former months seemed to lay hold of Kate as soon as she set foot in the house in Bruton Street, as if the cross feelings were lurking in the old corners.
She began by missing Mrs. Lacy very much. The kind soft governess had made herself more loved than the wayward child knew; and when Kate had run into the schoolroom and found nobody sitting by the fire, no sad sweet smile to greet her, no one to hear her adventures, and remembered that she had worried the poor widow, and that she would never come back again, she could have cried, and really had a great mind to write to her, ask her pardon, and say she was sorry. It would perhaps have been the beginning of better things if she had; but of all things in the world, what prevented her? Just this--that she had an idea that her aunt expected it of her! O Kate! Kate!
So she went back to the harebell, and presently began rummaging among her books for a picture of one to copy; and just then Lady Barbara came in, found half a dozen strewn on the floor, and ordered her to put them tidy, and then be dressed. That put her out, and after her old bouncing fashion she flew upstairs, caught her frock in the old hitch at the turn, and half tore off a flounce.
No wonder Lady Barbara was displeased; and that was the beginning of things going wrong--nay, worse than before the going to Bournemouth. Lady Barbara was seeking for a governess, but such a lady as she wished for was not to be found in a day; and in the meantime she was resolved to do her duty by her niece, and watched over her behaviour, and gave her all the lessons that she did not have from masters.
Whether it was that Lady Barbara did not know exactly what was to be expected of a little girl, or whether Kate was more fond of praise than was good for her, those daily lessons were more trying than ever they had been. Generally she had liked them; but with Aunt Barbara, the being told to sit upright, hold her book straight, or pronounce her words rightly, always teased her, and put her out of humour at the beginning. Or she was reminded of some failure of yesterday, and it always seemed to her unjust that bygones should not be bygones; or even when she knew she had been doing her best, her aunt always thought she could have done better, so that she had no heart or spirit to try another time, but went on in a dull, save-trouble way, hardly caring to exert herself to avoid a scolding, it was so certain to come.
It was not right--a really diligent girl would have won for herself the peaceful sense of having done her best, and her aunt would have owned it in time; whereas poor Kate's resistance only made herself and her aunt worse to each other every day, and destroyed her sense of duty and obedience more and more.
Lady Barbara could not be always with her, and when once out of sight there was a change. If she were doing a lesson with one of her masters, she fell into a careless attitude in an instant, and would often chatter so that there was no calling her to order, except by showing great determination to tell her aunt. It made her feel both sly and guilty to behave so differently out of sight, and yet now that she had once begun she seemed unable to help going on and she was sure, foolish child, that Aunt Barbara's strictness made her naughty!
Then there were her walks. She was sent out with Josephine in the morning and desired to walk nowhere but in the Square; and in the afternoon she and Josephine were usually set down by the carriage together in one of the parks, and appointed where to meet it again after Lady Jane had taken her airing when she was well enough, for she soon became more ailing than usual. They were to keep in the quiet paths, and not speak to anyone.
But neither Josephine nor her young lady had any turn for what was "triste." One morning, when Kate was in great want of a bit of India-rubber, and had been sighing because of the displeasure she should meet for having lost her own through using it in play-hours, Josephine offered to take her--only a little out of her way--to buy a new piece.
Kate knew this was not plain dealing, and hated herself for it, but she was tired of being scolded, and consented! And then how miserable she was; how afraid of being asked where she had been; how terrified lest her aunt should observe that it was a new, not an old, piece; how humiliated by knowing she was acting untruth!
And then Josephine took more liberties. When Kate was walking along the path, thinking how to rhyme to "pride," she saw Josephine talking over the iron rail to a man with a beard; and she told her maid afterwards that it was wrong; but Josephine said, "Miladi had too good a heart to betray her," and the man came again and again, and once even walked home part of the way with Josephine, a little behind the young lady.
Kate was desperately affronted, and had a great mind to complain to her aunts. But then Josephine could have told that they had not been in the Square garden at all that morning, but in much more entertaining streets! Poor Kate, these daily disobediences did not weigh on her nearly as much as the first one did; it was all one general sense of naughtiness!
Working at her harebell was the pleasantest thing she did, but her eagerness about it often made her neglectful and brought her into scrapes. She had filled one blank book with her verses and pictures, some rather good, some very bad; and for want of help and correction she was greatly delighted with her own performance, and thought it quite worthy of a little ornamental album, where she could write out the verses and gum in the drawings.
"Please, Aunt Barbara, let me go to the Soho Bazaar to-day?"
"I cannot take you there, I have an engagement."
"But may I not go with Josephine?"
"Certainly not. I would not trust you there with her. Besides, you sp
end too much upon trumpery, as it is."
"I don't want it for myself; I want something to get ready for Sylvia's birthday--the Sylvia that is come to London, I mean."
"I do not approve of a habit of making presents."
"Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am to drink tea with her on her birthday, and spend the day, and go to the Zoological Gardens, and I have all ready but my presents! and it will not be in time if you won't let me go to-day."
"I never grant anything to pertinacity," answered Lady Barbara. "I have told you that I cannot go with you to-day, and you ought to submit."
"But the birthday, Aunt Barbara!"
"I have answered you once, Katharine; you ought to know better than to persist."
Kate pouted, and the tears swelled in her eyes at the cruelty of depriving her of the pleasure of making her purchase, and at having her beautiful fanciful production thus ruined by her aunt's unkindness. As she sat over her geography lesson, out of sight of her own bad writing, her broken-backed illuminated capitals, her lumpy campanulas, crooked-winged fairies, queer perspective, and dabs of blue paint, she saw her performance not as it was, but as it was meant to be, heard her own lines without their awkward rhymes and bits like prose, and thought of the wonder and admiration of all the Wardour family, and of the charms of having it secretly lent about as a dear simple sweet effusion of the talented young countess, who longed for rural retirement. And down came a great tear into the red trimming of British North America, and Kate unadvisedly trying to wipe it up with her handkerchief, made a red smear all across to Cape Verd! Formerly she would have exclaimed at once; now she only held up the other side of the book that her aunt might not see, and felt very shabby all the time. But Lady Barbara was reading over a letter, and did not look. If Kate had not been wrapt up in herself, she would have seen that anxious distressed face.
There came a knock to the schoolroom door. It was Mr. Mercer, the doctor, who always came to see Lady Jane twice a week, and startled and alarmed, Lady Barbara sprang up. "Do you want me, Mr. Mercer? I'll come."
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