Countess Kate

“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.”