It was self-denying in Lady Barbara to refuse that invitation, for she and her sister would have been infinitely more comfortable together without their troublesome countess—above all when they had no governess to relieve them of her. The going out of town was sad enough to them, for they had always paid a long visit at Caergwent Castle, which had felt like their home through the lifetime of their brother and nephew; but now it was shut up, and their grief for their young nephew came back all the more freshly at the time of year when they were used to be kindly entertained by him in their native home.

But as they could not go there, they went to Bournemouth and the first run Kate took upon the sands took away all the giddiness from her head, and put an end to the tired feeling in her limbs! It really was a run! Aunt Barbara gave her leave to go out with Josephine; and though Josephine said it was very sombre and savage, between the pine-woods and the sea, Kate had not felt her heart leap with such fulness of enjoyment since she had made snow-balls last winter at home. She ran down to the waves, and watched them sweep in and curl over and break, as if she could never have enough of them; and she gazed at the grey outline of the Isle of Wight opposite, feeling as if there was something very great in really seeing an island.

When she came in, there was so much glow on her brown check, and her eyelids looked so much less heavy, that both the aunts gazed at her with pleasure, smiled to one another, and Lady Jane kissed her, while Lady Barbara said, "This was the right thing."

She was to be out as much as possible, so her aunt made a set of new rules for the day. There was to be a walk before breakfast; then breakfast; then Lady Barbara heard her read her chapter in the Bible, and go through her music. And really the music was not half as bad as might have been expected with Aunt Barbara. Kate was too much afraid of her to give the half attention she had paid to poor Mrs. Lacy—fright and her aunt's decision of manner forced her to mind what she was about; and though Aunt Barbara found her really very dull and unmusical, she did get on better than before, and learnt something, though more like a machine than a musician.

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 herself 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 -

"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 spend 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."

"No, thank you," said the doctor, coming in. "It was only that I promised I would look at this little lady, just to satisfy Lady Jane, who does not think her quite well."

Kate's love of being important always made her ready to be looked at by Mr. Mercer, who was a kind, fatherly old gentleman, not greatly apt to give physic, very good-natured, and from his long attendance more intimate with the two sisters than perhaps any other person was. Lady Barbara gave an odd sort of smile, and said, "Oh! very well!" and the old gentleman laughed as the two bright clear eyes met his, and said, "No great weight there, I think! Only a geography fever, eh? Any more giddy heads lately, eh? Or only when you make cheeses?"

"I can't make cheeses now, my frocks are so short," said Kate, whose spirits always recovered with the least change.

"No more dreams?"

"Not since I went to Bournemouth."

"Your tongue." And as Kate, who had a certain queer pleasure in the operation, put out the long pinky member with its ruddier tip, quivering like an animal, he laughed again, and said, "Thank you, Lady Caergwent; it is a satisfaction once in a way to see something perfectly healthy! You would not particularly wish for a spoonful of cod-liver oil, would you?"

Kate laughed, made a face, and shook her head.

"Well," said the doctor as he released her, "I may set Lady Jane's mind at rest. Nothing the matter there with the health."

"Nothing the matter but perverseness, I am afraid," said Lady Barbara, as Kate stole back to her place, and shut her face in with the board of her atlas. "It is my sister who is the victim, and I cannot have it go on. She is so dreadfully distressed whenever the child is in disgrace that it is doing her serious injury. Do you not see it, Mr. Mercer?"

"She is very fond of the child," said Mr. Mercer.

"That is the very thing! She is constantly worrying herself about her, takes all her naughtiness for illness, and then cannot bear to see her reproved. I assure you I am forced for my sister's sake to overlook many things which I know I ought not to pass by." (Kate shuddered.) "But the very anxiety about her is doing great harm."

"I thought Lady Jane nervous and excited this morning," said Mr. Mercer: "but that seemed to me to be chiefly about the Colonel's return."

"Yes," said Lady Barbara, "of course in some ways it will be a great pleasure; but it is very unlucky, after staying till the war was over, that he has had to sell out without getting his promotion. It will make a great difference!"

"On account of his son's health, is it not?"

"Yes; of course everything must give way to that, but it is most unfortunate. The boy has never recovered from his wound at Lucknow, and they could not bear to part, or they ought to have sent him home with his mother long ago; and now my brother has remained at his post till he thought he could be spared; but he has not got his promotion, which he must have had in a few months."

"When do you expect him?"

"They were to set off in a fortnight from the time he wrote, but it all depended on how Giles might be. I wish we knew; I wish there could be any certainty, this is so bad for my sister. And just at this very time, without a governess, when some children would be especially thoughtful and considerate, that we should have this strange fit of idleness and perverseness! It is very trying; I feel quite hopeless sometimes!"

Some children, as Lady Barbara said, would have been rendered thoughtful and considerate by hearing such a conversation as this, and have tried to make themselves as little troublesome to their elders as possible; but there are others who, unless they are directly addressed, only take in, in a strange dreamy way, that which belongs to the grown-up world, though quick enough to catch what concerns themselves. Thus Kate, though aware that Aunt Barbara thought her naughtiness made Aunt Jane ill, and that there was a fresh threat of the Lord Chancellor upon the return of her great- uncle from India, did not in the least perceive that her Aunt Barbara was greatly perplexed and harassed, divided between her care for her sister and for her niece, grieved for her brother's anxiety, and disappointed that he had been obliged to leave the army, instead of being made a General. The upshot of all that she carried away with her was, that it was very cross of Aunt Barbara to think she made Aunt Jane ill, and very very hard that she could not go to the bazaar.

Lady Jane did not go out that afternoon, and Lady Barbara set her niece and Josephine down in the Park, saying that she was going into Belgravia, and desiring them to meet her near Apsley House. They began to walk, and Kate began to lament. "If she could only have gone to the bazaar for her album! It was very hard!"

"Eh," Josephine said, "why should they not go? There was plenty of time. Miladi Barbe had given them till four. She would take la petite."

Kate hung back. She knew it was wrong. She should never dare produce the book if she had it.

But Josephine did not attend to the faltered English words, or disposed of them with a "Bah! Miladi will guess nothing!" and she had turned decidedly out of the Park, and was making a sign to a cab. Kate was greatly frightened, but was more afraid of checking Josephine in the open street, and making her dismiss the cab, than of getting into it. Besides, there was a very strong desire in her for the red and gold square book that had imprinted itself on her imagination. She could not but be glad to do something in spite of Aunt Barbara. So they were shut in, and went off along Piccadilly, Kate's feelings in a strange whirl of fright and triumph, amid the clattering of the glasses. Just suppose she saw anyone she knew!

But they got to Soho Square at last; and through the glass door, in among the stalls—that fairy land in general to Kate; but now she was too much frightened and bewildered to do more than hurry along the passages, staring so wildly for her albums, that Josephine touched her, and said, "Tenez, Miladi, they will think you farouche. Ah! see the beautiful wreaths!"

"Come on, Josephine," said Kate impatiently.

But it was not so easy to get the French maid on. A bazaar was felicity to her, and she had her little lady in her power; she stood and gazed, admired, and criticised, at every stall that afforded ornamental wearing apparel or work patterns; and Kate, making little excursions, and coming back again to her side, could not get her on three yards in a quarter of an hour, and was too shy and afraid of being lost, to wander away and transact her own business. At last they did come to a counter with ornamental stationery; and after looking at four or five books, Kate bought a purple embossed one, not at all what she had had in her mind's eye, just because she was in too great a fright to look further; and then step by step, very nearly crying at last, so as to alarm Josephine lest she should really cry, she got her out at last. It was a quarter to four, and Josephine was in vain sure that Miladi Barbe would never be at the place in time; Kate's heart was sick with fright at the thought of the shame of detection.

She begged to get out at the Marble Arch, and not risk driving along Park Lane; but Josephine was triumphant in her certainty that there was time; and on they went, Kate fancying every bay nose that passed the window would turn out to have the brougham, the man-servant, and Aunt Barbara behind it.

At length they were set down at what the Frenchwoman thought a safe distance, and paying the cabman, set out along the side path, Josephine admonishing her lady that it was best not to walk so swiftly, or to look guilty, or they would be "trahies."

But just then Kate really saw the carriage drawn up where there was an opening in the railings, and the servant holding open the door for them. Had they been seen? There was no knowing! Lady Barbara did not say one single word; but that need not have been surprising—only how very straight her back was, how fixed her marble mouth and chin! It was more like Diana's head than ever—Diana when she was shooting all Niobe's daughters, thought Kate, in her dreamy, vague alarm. Then she looked at Josephine on the back seat, to see what she thought of it; but the brown sallow face in the little bonnet was quite still and like itself—beyond Kate's power to read.

The stillness, doubt, and suspense, were almost unbearable. She longed to speak, but had no courage, and could almost have screamed with desire to have it over, end as it would. Yet at last, when the carriage did turn into Bruton Street, fright and shame had so entirely the upper hand, that she read the numbers on every door, wishing the carriage would only stand still at each, or go slower, that she might put off the moment of knowing whether she was found out.

They stopped; the few seconds of ringing, of opening the doors, of getting out, were over. She knew how it would be, when, instead of going upstairs, her aunt opened the schoolroom door, beckoned her in, and said gravely, "Lady Caergwent, while you are under my charge, it is my duty to make you obey me. Tell me where you have been."

There was something in the sternness of that low lady-like voice, and of that dark deep eye, that terrified Kate more than the brightest flash of lightning: and it was well for her that the habit of truth was too much fixed for falsehood or shuffling even to occur to her. She did not dare to do more than utter in a faint voice, scarcely audible "To the bazaar."

"In direct defiance of my commands?"

But the sound of her own confession, the relief of having told, gave Kate spirit to speak; "I know it was naughty," she said, looking up; "I ought not. Aunt Barbara, I have been very naughty. I've been often where you didn't know."

"Tell me the whole truth, Katharine;" and Lady Barbara's look relaxed, and the infinite relief of putting an end to a miserable concealment was felt by the little girl; so she told of the shops she had been at, and of her walks in frequented streets, adding that indeed she would not have gone, but that Josephine took her. "I did like it," she added candidly; "but I know I ought not."

"Yes, Katharine," said Lady Barbara, almost as sternly as ever; "I had thought that with all your faults you were to be trusted."

"I have told you the truth!" cried Kate.

"Now you may have; but you have been deceiving me all this time; you, who ought to set an example of upright and honourable conduct."

"No, no, Aunt!" exclaimed Kate, her eyes flashing. "I never spoke one untrue word to you; and I have not now—nor ever. I never deceived."

"I do not say that you have TOLD untruths. It is deceiving to betray the confidence placed in you."

Kate knew it was; yet she had never so felt that her aunt trusted her as to have the sense of being on honour; and she felt terribly wounded and grieved, but not so touched as to make her cry or ask pardon. She knew she had been audaciously disobedient; but it was hard to be accused of betraying trust when she had never felt that it was placed in her; and yet the conviction of deceit took from her the last ground she had of peace with herself.

Drooping and angry, she stood without a word; and her aunt presently said, "I do not punish you. The consequences of your actions are punishment enough in themselves, and I hope they may warn you, or I cannot tell what is to become of you in your future life, and of all that will depend on you. You must soon be under more strict and watchful care than mine, and I hope the effect may be good. Meantime, I desire that your Aunt Jane may be spared hearing of this affair, little as you seem to care for her peace of mind."

And away went Lady Barbara; while Kate, flinging herself upon the sofa, sobbed out, "I do care for Aunt Jane! I love Aunt Jane! I love her ten hundred times more than you! you horrid cross old Diana! But I have deceived! Oh, I am getting to be a wicked little girl! I never did such things at home. Nobody made me naughty there. But it's the fashionable world. It is corrupting my simplicity. It always does. And I shall be lost! O Mary, Mary! O Papa, Papa! Oh, come and take me home!" And for a little while Kate gasped out these calls, as if she had really thought they would break the spell, and bring her back to Oldburgh.

She ceased crying at last, and slowly crept upstairs, glad to meet no one, and that not even Josephine was there to see her red eyes. Her muslin frock was on the bed, and she managed to dress herself, and run down again unseen; she stood over the fire, so that the housemaid, who brought in her tea, should not see her face; and by the time she had to go to the drawing-room, the mottling of her face had abated under the influence of a story-book, which always drove troubles away for the time.

It was a very quiet evening. Aunt Barbara read bits out of the newspaper, and there was a little talk over them: and Kate read on in her book, to hinder herself from feeling uncomfortable. Now and then Aunt Jane said a few soft words about "Giles and Emily;" but her sister always led away from the subject, afraid of her exciting herself, and getting anxious.

And if Kate had been observing, she would have heard in the weary sound of Aunt Barbara's voice, and seen in those heavy eyelids, that the troubles of the day had brought on a severe headache, and that there was at least one person suffering more than even the young ill- used countess.

And when bed-time came, she learnt more of the "consequences of her actions." Stiff Mrs. Bartley stood there with her candle.

"Where is Josephine?"

"She is gone away, my Lady."

Kate asked no more, but shivered and trembled all over. She recollected that in telling the truth she had justified herself, and at Josephine's expense. She knew Josephine would call it a blackness—a treason. What would become of the poor bright merry Frenchwoman? Should she never see her again? And all because she had not had the firmness to be obedient! Oh, loss of trust! loss of confidence! disobedience! How wicked this place made her! and would there be any end to it?

And all night she was haunted through her dreams with the Lord Chancellor, in his wig, trying to catch her, and stuff her into the woolsack, and Uncle Wardour's voice always just out of reach. If she could only get to him!



CHAPTER XI.



The young countess was not easily broken down. If she was ever so miserable for one hour, she was ready to be amused the next; and though when left to herself she felt very desolate in the present, and much afraid of the future, the least enlivenment brightened her up again into more than her usual spirits. Even an entertaining bit in the history that she was reading would give her so much amusement that she would forget her disgrace in making remarks and asking questions, till Lady Barbara gravely bade her not waste time, and decided that she had no feeling.

It was not more easy to find a maid than a governess to Lady Barbara's mind, nor did she exert herself much in the matter, for, as Kate heard her tell Mr. Mercer, she had decided that the present arrangement could not last; and then something was asked about the Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville; to which the answer was, "Oh no, quite impossible; she could never be in a house with an invalid;" and then ensued something about the Chancellor and an establishment, which, as usual, terrified Kate's imagination.

Indeed that night terrors were at their height, for Mrs. Bartley never allowed dawdling, and with a severely respectful silence made the undressing as brief an affair as possible, brushing her hair till her head tingled all over, putting away the clothes with the utmost speed, and carrying off the candle as soon as she had uttered her grim "Good-night, my Lady," leaving Kate to choose between her pet terrors—either of the Lord Chancellor, or of the house on fire—or a very fine new one, that someone would make away with her to make way for her Uncle Giles and his son to come to her title. Somehow Lady Barbara had contrived to make her exceedingly in awe of her Uncle Giles, the strict stern soldier who was always implicitly obeyed, and who would be so shocked at her. She wished she could hide somewhere when he was coming! But there was one real good bright pleasure near, that would come before her misfortunes; and that was the birthday to be spent at the Wardours'. As to the present, Josephine had had the album in her pocket, and had never restored it, and Kate had begun to feel a distaste to the whole performance, to recollect its faults, and to be ashamed of the entire affair; but that was no reason she should not be very happy with her friends, who had promised to take her to the Zoological Gardens.

She had not seen them since her return to London; they were at Westbourne Road, too far off for her to walk thither even if she had had anyone to go with her, and though they had called, no one had seen them; but she had had two or three notes, and had sent some "story pictures" by the post. And the thoughts of that day of freedom and enjoyment of talking to Alice, being petted by Mrs. Wardour and caressed by Sylvia, seemed to bear her through all the dull morning walks, in which she was not only attended by Bartley, but by the man-servant; all the lessons with her aunt, and the still more dreary exercise which Lady Barbara took with her in some of the parks in the afternoon. She counted the days to the 21st whenever she woke in the morning; and at last Saturday was come, and it would be Monday.

"Katharine," said Lady Barbara at breakfast, "you had better finish your drawing to-day; here is a note from Madame to say it will suit her best to come on Monday instead of Tuesday."

"Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am going to Westbourne Road on Monday."

"Indeed! I was not aware of it."

"Oh, it is Sylvia's birthday! and I am going to the Zoological Gardens with them."

"And pray how came you to make this engagement without consulting me?"

"It was all settled at Bournemouth. I thought you knew! Did not Mrs. Wardour ask your leave for me?"

"Mrs. Wardour said something about hoping to see you in London, but I made no decided answer. I should not have allowed the intimacy there if I had expected that the family would be living in London; and there is no reason that it should continue. Constant intercourse would not be at all desirable."

"But may I not go on Monday?" said Kate, her eyes opening wide with consternation.

"No, certainly not. You have not deserved that I should trust you; I do not know whom you might meet there: and I cannot have you going about with any chance person."

"O Aunt Barbara! Aunt Barbara! I have promised!"

"Your promise can be of no effect without my consent."

"But they will expect me. They will be so disappointed!"

"I cannot help that. They ought to have applied to me for my consent."

"Perhaps," said Kate hopefully, "Mrs. Wardour will write to-day. If she does, will you let me go?"

"No, Katharine. While you are under my charge, I am accountable for you, and I will not send you into society I know nothing about. Let me hear no more of this, but write a note excusing yourself, and we will let the coachman take it to the post."

Kate was thoroughly enraged, and forgot even her fears. "I sha'n't excuse myself," she said; "I shall say you will not let me go."

"You will write a proper and gentlewoman-like note," said Lady Barbara quietly, "so as not to give needless offence."

"I shall say," exclaimed Kate more loudly, "that I can't go because you won't let me go near old friends."

"Go into the schoolroom, and write a proper note, Katharine; I shall come presently, and see what you have said," repeated Lady Barbara, commanding her own temper with some difficulty.

Kate flung away into the schoolroom, muttering, and in a tumult of exceeding disappointment, anger, and despair, too furious even to cry, and dashing about the room, calling Aunt Barbara after every horrible heroine she could think of, and pitying herself and her friends, till the thought of Sylvia's disappointment stung her beyond all bearing. She was still rushing hither and thither, inflaming her passion, when her aunt opened the door.

"Where is the note?" she said quietly.

"I have not done it."

"Sit down then this instant, and write," said Lady Barbara, with her Diana face and cool way, the most terrible of all.

Kate sulkily obeyed, but as she seated herself, muttered, "I shall say you won't let me go near them."

"Write as I tell you.—My dear Mrs. Wardour—"

"There."

"I fear you may be expecting to see me on Monday—"

"I don't fear; I know she is."

"Write—I fear you may be expecting me on Monday, as something passed on the subject at Bournemouth; and in order to prevent inconvenience, I write to say that it will not be in my power to call on that day, as my aunt had made a previous engagement for me."

"I am sure I sha'n't say that!" cried Kate, breaking out of all bounds in her indignation.

"Recollect yourself, Lady Caergwent," said Lady Barbara calmly.

"It is not true!" cried Kate passionately, jumping up from her seat. "You had not made an engagement for me! I won't write it! I won't write lies, and you sha'n't make me."

"I do not allow such words or such a manner in speaking to me," said Lady Barbara, not in the least above her usual low voice; and her calmness made Kate the more furious, and jump and dance round with passion, repeating, "I'll never write lies, nor tell lies, for you or anyone; you may kill me, but I won't!"

"That is enough exposure of yourself, Lady Caergwent," said her aunt. "When you have come to your senses, and choose to apologize for insulting me, and show me the letter written as I desire, you may come to me."

And away walked Lady Barbara, as cool and unmoved apparently as if she had been made of cast iron; though within she was as sorry, and hardly less angry, than the poor frantic child she left.

Kate did not fly about now. She was very indignant, but she was proud of herself too; she had spoken as if she had been in a book, and she believed herself persecuted for adhering to old friends, and refusing to adopt fashionable falsehoods, such as she had read of. She was a heroine in her own eyes, and that made her inclined to magnify all the persecution and cruelty. They wanted to shut her up from the friends of her childhood, to force her to be false and fashionable; they had made her naughtier and naughtier ever since she came there; they were teaching her to tell falsehoods now, and to give up the Wardours. She would never never do it! Helpless girl as she was, she would be as brave as the knights and earls her ancestors, and stand up for the truth. But what would they do at her! Oh! could she bear Aunt Barbara's dreadful set Diana face again, and not write as she was told!

The poor weak little heart shrank with terror as she only looked at Aunt Barbara's chair—not much like the Sir Giles de Umfraville she had thought of just now. "And I'm naughty now; I did betray my trust: I'm much naughtier than I was. Oh, if Papa was but here!" And then a light darted into Kate's eye, and a smile came on her lip. "Why should not I go home? Papa would have me again; I know he would! He would die rather than leave his child Kate to be made wicked, and forced to tell lies! Perhaps he'll hide me! Oh, if I could go to school with the children at home in disguise, and let Uncle Giles be Earl of Caergwent if he likes! I've had enough of grandeur! I'll come as Cardinal Wolsey did, when he said he was come to lay his bones among them—and Sylvia and Mary, and Charlie and Armyn—oh, I must go where someone will be kind to me again! Can I really, though? Why not?" and her heart beat violently. "Yes, yes; nothing would happen to me; I know how to manage! If I can only get there, they will hide me from Aunt Barbara and the Lord Chancellor; and even if I had to go back, I should have had one kiss of them all. Perhaps if I don't go now I shall never see them again!"

With thoughts something like these, Kate, moving dreamily, as if she were not sure that it was herself or not, opened her little writing- case, took out her purse, and counted the money. There was a sovereign and some silver; more than enough, as she well knew. Then she took out of a chiffoniere her worked travelling bag, and threw in a few favourite books; then stood and gasped, and opened the door to peep out. The coachman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for orders, so she drew in her head, looked at her watch, and considered whether her room would be clear of the housemaids. If she could once get safely out of the house she would not be missed till her dinner time, and perhaps then might be supposed sullen, and left alone. She was in a state of great fright, starting violently at every sound; but the scheme having once occurred to her, it seemed as if St. James's Parsonage was pulling her harder and harder every minute; she wondered if there were really such things as heart-strings; if there were, hers must be fastened very tight round Sylvia.

At last she ventured out, and flew up to her own room more swiftly than ever she had darted before! She moved about quietly, and perceived by the sounds in the next room that Mrs. Bartley was dressing Aunt Jane, and Aunt Barbara reading a letter to her. This was surely a good moment; but she knew she must dress herself neatly, and not look scared, if she did not mean to be suspected and stopped; and she managed to get quietly into her little shaggy coat, her black hat and feather and warm gloves—even her boots were remembered—and then whispering to herself, "It can't be wrong to get away from being made to tell stories! I'm going to Papa!" she softly opened the door, went on tip-toe past Lady's Jane's door; then after the first flight of stairs, rushed like the wind, unseen by anyone, got the street door open, pulled it by its outside handle, and heard it shut!

It was done now! She was on the wide world—in the street! She could not have got in again without knocking, ringing, and making her attempt known; and she was far more terrified at the thought of Lady Barbara's stern face and horror at her proceedings than even at the long journey alone.

Every step was a little bit nearer Sylvia, Mary, and Papa—it made her heart bound in the midst of its frightened throbs—every step was farther away from Aunt Barbara, and she could hardly help setting off in a run. It was a foggy day, when it was not so easy to see far, but she longed to be out of Bruton Street, where she might be known; yet when beyond the quiet familiar houses, the sense of being alone, left to herself, began to get very alarming, and she could hardly control herself to walk like a rational person to the cab-stand in Davies Street.

Nobody remarked her; she was a tall girl for her age, and in her sober dark dress, with her little bag, might be taken for a tradesman's daughter going to school, even if anyone had been out who had time to look at her. Trembling, she saw a cabman make a sign to her, and stood waiting for him, jumped in as he opened his door, and felt as if she had found a refuge for the time upon the dirty red plush cushions and the straw. "To the Waterloo Station," said she, with as much indifference and self-possession as she could manage. The man touched his hat, and rattled off: he perhaps wondering if this were a young runaway, and if he should get anything by telling where she was gone; she working herself into a terrible fright for fear he should be going to drive round and round London, get her into some horrible den of iniquity, and murder her for the sake of her money, her watch, and her clothes. Did not cabmen always do such things? She had quite decided how she would call a policeman, and either die like an Umfraville or offer a ransom of "untold gold," and had gone through all possible catastrophes long before she found herself really safe at the railway station, and the man letting her out, and looking for his money.

The knowledge that all depended on herself, and that any signs of alarm would bring on inquiry, made her able to speak and act so reasonably, that she felt like one in a dream. With better fortune than she could have hoped for, a train was going to start in a quarter of an hour; and the station clerk was much too busy and too much hurried to remark how scared were her eyes, and how trembling her voice, as she asked at his pigeon-hole for "A first-class ticket to Oldburgh, if you please," offered the sovereign in payment, swept up the change, and crept out to the platform.

A carriage had "Oldburgh" marked on it; she tried to open the door, but could not reach the handle; then fancied a stout porter who came up with his key must be some messenger of the Lord Chancellor come to catch her, and was very much relieved when he only said, "Where for, Miss?" and on her answer, "Oldburgh," opened the door for her, and held her bag while she tripped up the steps. "Any luggage, Miss?" "No, thank you." He shot one inquiring glance after her, but hastened away; and she settled herself in the very farthest corner of the carriage, and lived in an agony for the train to set off before her flight should be detected.

Once off, she did not care; she should be sure of at least seeing Sylvia, and telling her uncle her troubles. She had one great start, when the door was opened, and a gentleman peered in; but it was merely to see if there was room, for she heard him say, "Only a child," and in came a lady and two gentlemen, who at least filled up the window so that nobody could see her, while they talked a great deal to someone on the platform. And then after some bell-ringing, whistling, sailing backwards and forwards, and stopping, they were fairly off—getting away from the roofs of London—seeing the sky clear of smoke and fog—getting nearer home every moment; and Countess Kate relaxed her shy, frightened, drawn-up attitude, gave a long breath, felt that the deed was done, and began to dwell on the delight with which she should be greeted at home, and think how to surprise them all!

There was plenty of time for thinking and planning and dreaming, some few possible things, but a great many more most impossible ones. Perhaps the queerest notion of all was her plan for being disguised like a school-child all day, and always noticed for her distinguished appearance by ladies who came to see the school, or overheard talking French to Sylvia; and then in the midst of her exceeding anxiety not to be detected, she could not help looking at her travelling companions, and wondering if they guessed with what a grand personage they had the honour to be travelling! Only a child, indeed! What would they think if they knew? And the little goose held her pocket- handkerchief in her hand, feeling as if it would be like a story if they happened to wonder at the coronet embroidered in the corner; and when she took out a story-book, she would have liked that the fly- leaf should just carelessly reveal the Caergwent written upon it. She did not know that selfishness had thrown out the branch of self- consequence.

However, nothing came of it; they had a great deal too much to say to each other to notice the little figure in the corner; and she had time to read a good deal, settle a great many fine speeches, get into many a fright lest there should be an accident, and finally grow very impatient, alarmed, and agitated before the last station but one was passed, and she began to know the cut of the hedgerow-trees, and the shape of the hills—to feel as if the cattle and sheep in the fields were old friends, and to feel herself at home.

Oldburgh Station! They were stopping at last, and she was on her feet, pressing to the window between the strangers. One of the gentlemen kindly made signs to the porter to let her out, and asked if she had any baggage, or anyone to meet her. She thanked him by a smile and shake of the head; she could not speak for the beating of her heart; she felt almost as much upon the world as when the door in Bruton Street had shut behind her; and besides, a terrible wild fancy had seized her—suppose, just suppose, they were all gone away, or ill, or someone dead! Perhaps she felt it would serve her right, and that was the reason she was in such terror.



CHAPTER XII.



When Kate had left the train, she was still two miles from St. James's; and it was half-past three o'clock, so that she began to feel that she had run away without her dinner, and that the beatings of her heart made her knees ache, so that she had no strength to walk.

She thought her best measure would be to make her way to a pastry- cook's shop that looked straight down the street to the Grammar School, and where it was rather a habit of the family to meet Charlie when they had gone into the town on business, and wanted to walk out with him. He would be out at four o'clock, and there would not be long to wait. So, feeling shy, and even more guilty and frightened than on her first start, Kate threaded the streets she knew so well, and almost gasping with nervous alarm, popped up the steps into the shop, and began instantly eating a bun, and gazing along the street. She really could not speak till she had swallowed a few mouthfuls; and then she looked up to the woman, and took courage to ask if the boys were out of school yet.

"Oh, no, Miss; not for a quarter of an hour yet."

"Do you know if—if Master Charles Wardour is there to-day?" added Kate, with a gulp.

"I don't, Miss." And the woman looked hard at her.

"Do you know if any of them—any of them from St. James's, are in to- day?"

"No, Miss; I have not seen any of them, but very likely they may be. I saw Mr. Wardour go by yesterday morning."

So far they were all well, then; and Kate made her mind easier, and went on eating like a hungry child till the great clock struck four; when she hastily paid for her cakes and tarts, put on her gloves, and stood on the step, half in and half out of the shop, staring down the street. Out came the boys in a rush, making straight for the shop, and brushing past Kate; she, half alarmed, half affronted, descended from her post, still looking intently. Half a dozen more big fellows, eagerly talking, almost tumbled over her, and looked as if she had no business there; she seemed to be quite swept off the pavement into the street, and to be helpless in the midst of a mob, dashing around her. They might begin to tease her in a minute; and more terrified than at any moment of her journey, she was almost ready to cry, when the tones of a well-known voice came on her ear close to her—"I say, Will, you come and see my new terrier;" and before the words were uttered, with a cry of, "Charlie, Charlie!" she was clinging to a stout boy who had been passing without looking at her.

"Let go, I say. Who are you?" was the first rough greeting.

"O Charlie, Charlie!" almost sobbing, and still grasping his arm tight.

"Oh, I say!" and he stood with open mouth staring at her.

"O Charlie! take me home!"

"Yes, yes; come along!—Get off with you, fellows!" he added—turning round upon the other boys, who were beginning to stare—and exclaimed, "It's nothing but our Kate!"

Oh! what a thrill there was in hearing those words; and the boys, who were well-behaved and gentlemanly, were not inclined to molest her. So she hurried on, holding Charles's arm for several steps, till they were out of the hubbub, when he turned again and stared, and again exclaimed, "I say!" all that he could at present utter; and Kate looked at his ruddy face and curly head, and dusty coat and inky collar, as if she would eat him for very joy.

"I say!" and this time he really did say, "Where are the rest of them?"

"At home, aren't they?"

"What, didn't they bring you in?"

"Oh no!"

"Come, don't make a tomfoolery of it; that's enough. I shall have all the fellows at me for your coming up in that way, you know. Why couldn't you shake hands like anyone else?"

"O Charlie, I couldn't help it! Please let us go home!"

"Do you mean that you aren't come from there?"

"No," said Kate, half ashamed, but far more exultant, and hanging down her head; "I came from London—I came by myself. My aunt wanted me to tell a story, and—and I have run away. O Charlie! take me home!" and with a fresh access of alarm, she again threw her arms round him, as if to gain his protection from some enemy.

"Oh, I say!" again he cried, looking up the empty street and down again, partly for the enemy, partly to avoid eyes; but he only beheld three dirty children and an old woman, so he did not throw her off roughly. "Ran away!" and he gave a great whistle.

"Yes, yes. My aunt shut me up because I would not tell a story," said Kate, really believing it herself. "Oh, let us get home, Charlie, do."

"Very well, if you won't throttle a man; and let me get Tony in here," he added, going on a little way towards a small inn stable- yard.

"Oh, don't go," cried Kate, who, once more protected, could not bear to be left alone a moment; but Charlie plunged into the yard, and came back not only with the pony, but with a plaid, and presently managed to mount Kate upon the saddle, throwing the plaid round her so as to hide the short garments and long scarlet stockings, that were not adapted for riding, all with a boy's rough and tender care for the propriety of his sister's appearance.

"There, that will do," said he, holding the bridle. "So you found it poor fun being My Lady, and all that."

"Oh! it was awful, Charlie! You little know, in your peaceful retirement, what are the miseries of the great."

"Come, Kate, don't talk bosh out of your books. What did they do to you? They didn't lick you, did they?"

"No, no; nonsense," said Kate, rather affronted; "but they wanted to make me forget all that I cared for, and they really did shut me up because I said I would not write a falsehood to please them! They did, Charlie!" and her eyes shone.

"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.