Countess Kate

Among the carriages that were waiting at the terminus was a small brougham, very neat and shiny; and a servant came up and touched his hat, opening the door for Kate, who was told to sit there while the servant and Mr. Wardour looked for the luggage.  She was a little disappointed.  She had once seen a carriage go by with four horses, and a single one did not seem at all worthy of her; but she had two chapters more of her story to read, and was so eager to see the end of it, that Mr. Wardour could hardly persuade her to look out and see the Thames when she passed over it, nor the Houses of Parliament and the towers of Westminster Abbey.

At last, while passing through the brighter and more crowded streets, Kate having satisfied herself what had become of the personages of her story, looked up, and saw nothing but dull houses of blackened cream colour; and presently found the carriage stopping at the door of one.

“Is it here, Papa?” she said, suddenly seized with fright.

“Yes,” he said, “this is Bruton Street;” and he looked at her anxiously as the door was opened and the steps were let down.  She took tight hold of his hand.  Whatever she had been in her day-dreams, she was only his own little frightened Kate now; and she tried to shrink behind him as the footman preceded them up the stairs, and opening the door, announced—“Lady Caergwent and Mr. Wardour!”

Two ladies rose up, and came forward to meet her.  She felt herself kissed by both, and heard greetings, but did not know what to say, and stood up by Mr. Wardour, hanging down her head, and trying to stand upon one foot with the other, as she always did when she was shy and awkward.

“Sit down, my dear,” said one of the ladies, making a place for her on the sofa.  But Kate only laid hold of a chair, pulled it as close to Mr. Wardour as possible, and sat down on the extreme corner of it, feeling for a rail on which to set her feet, and failing to find one, twining her ankles round the leg of the chair.  She knew very well that this was not pretty; but she never could recollect what was pretty behaviour when she was shy.  She was a very different little girl in a day-dream and out of one.  And when one of the aunts asked her if she were tired, all she could do was to give a foolish sort of smile, and say, “N—no.”

Then she had a perception that Papa was looking reprovingly at her; so she wriggled her legs away from that of the chair, twisted them together in the middle, and said something meant for “No, thank you;” but of which nothing was to be heard but “q,” apparently proceeding out of the brim of her broad hat, so low did the young countess, in her amiable simplicity, hold her head.

“She is shy!” said one of the ladies to the other; and they let her alone a little, and began to talk to Mr. Wardour about the journey, and various other things, to which Kate did not greatly listen.  She began to let her eyes come out from under her hat brim, and satisfied herself that the aunts certainly did not wear either turbans or birds of paradise, but looked quite as like other people as she felt herself, in spite of her title.

Indeed, one aunt had nothing on her head at all but a little black velvet and lace, not much more than Mary sometimes wore, and the other only a very light cap.  Kate thought great-aunts must be as old at least as Mrs. Brown, and was much astonished to see that these ladies had no air of age about them.  The one who sat on the sofa had a plump, smooth, pretty, pink and white face, very soft and pleasant to look at, though an older person than Kate would have perceived that the youthful delicacy of the complexion showed that she had been carefully shut up and sheltered from all exposure and exertion, and that the quiet innocent look of the small features was that of a person who had never had to use her goodness more actively than a little baby.  Kate was sure that this was aunt Jane, and that she should get on well with her, though that slow way of speaking was rather wearisome.

The other aunt, who was talking the most, was quite as slim as Mary, and had a bright dark complexion, so that if Kate had not seen some shades of grey in her black hair, it would have been hard to believe her old at all.  She had a face that put Kate in mind of a picture of a beautiful lady in a book at home—the eyes, forehead, nose, and shape of the chin, were so finely made; and yet there was something in them that made the little girl afraid, and feel as if the plaster cast of Diana’s head on the study mantelpiece had got a pair of dark eyes, and was looking very hard at her; and there was a sort of dry sound in her voice that was uncomfortable to hear.

Then Kate took a survey of the room, which was very prettily furnished, with quantities of beautiful work of all kinds, and little tables and brackets covered with little devices in china and curiosities under glass, and had flowers standing in the windows; and by the time she had finished trying to make out the subject of a print on the walls, she heard some words that made her think that her aunts were talking of her new governess, and she opened her ears to hear, “So we thought it would be an excellent arrangement for her, poor thing!” and “Papa” answering, “I hope Kate may try to be a kind considerate pupil.”  Then seeing by Kate’s eyes that her attention had been astray, or that she had not understood Lady Barbara’s words, he turned to her, saying, “Did you not hear what your aunt was telling me?”

“No, Papa.”

“She was telling me about the lady who will teach you.  She has had great afflictions.  She has lost her husband, and is obliged to go out as governess, that she may be able to send her sons to school.  So, Kate, you must think of this, and try to give her as little trouble as possible.”

It would have been much nicer if Kate would have looked up readily, and said something kind and friendly; but the fit of awkwardness had come over her again, and with it a thought so selfish, that it can hardly be called otherwise than naughty—namely, that grown-up people in trouble were very tiresome, and never let young ones have any fun.

“Shall I take you to see Mrs. Lacy, my dear?” said Lady Barbara, rising.  And as Kate took hold of Mr. Wardour’s hand, she added, “You will see Mr. Wardour again after dinner.  You had better dress, and have some meat for your tea, with Mrs. Lacy, and then come into the drawing-room.”

This was a stroke upon Kate.  She who had dined with the rest of the world ever since she could remember—she, now that she was a countess, to be made to drink tea up-stairs like a baby, and lose all that time of Papa’s company!  She swelled with displeasure: but Aunt Barbara did not look like a person whose orders could be questioned, and “Papa” said not a word in her favour.  Possibly the specimen of manners she had just given had not led either him or Lady Barbara to think her fit for a late dinner.

Lady Barbara first took her up-stairs, and showed her a little long narrow bed-room, with a pretty pink-curtained bed in it.

“This will be your room, my dear,” she said.  “I am sorry we have not a larger one to offer you; but it opens into mine, as you see, and my sister’s is just beyond.  Our maid will dress you for a few days, when I hope to engage one for you.”

Here was something like promotion!  Kate dearly loved to have herself taken off her own hands, and not to be reproved by Mary for untidiness, or roughly set to rights by Lily’s nurse.  She actually exclaimed, “Oh, thank you!”  And her aunt waited till the hat and cloak had been taken off and the chestnut hair smoothed, looked at her attentively, and said, “Yes, you are like the family.”

“I’m very like my own papa,” said Kate, growing a little bolder, but still speaking with her head on one side, which was her way when she said anything sentimental.

“I dare say you are,” answered her aunt, with the dry sound.  “Are you ready now?  I will show you the way.  The house is very small,” continued Lady Barbara, as they went down the stairs to the ground floor; “and this must be your school-room for the present.”

It was the room under the back drawing-room; and in it was a lady in a widow’s cap, sitting at work.  “Here is your little Pupil—Lady Caergwent—Mrs. Lacy,” said Lady Barbara.  “I hope you will find her a good child.  She will drink tea with you, and then dress, and afterwards I hope, we shall see you with her in the drawing-room.”

Mrs. Lacy bowed, without any answer in words, only she took Kate’s hand and kissed her.  Lady Barbara left them, and there was a little pause.  Kate looked at her governess, and her heart sank, for it was the very saddest face she had ever seen—the eyes looked soft and gentle, but as if they had wept till they could weep no longer; and when the question was asked, “Are you tired, my dear?” it was in a sunk tone, trying to be cheerful but the sadder for that very reason.  Poor lady! it was only that morning that she had parted with her son, and had gone away from the home where she had lived with her husband and children.

Kate was almost distressed; yet she felt more at her ease than with her aunts, and answered, “Not at all, thank you,” in her natural tone.

“Was it a long journey?”

Kate had been silent so long, that her tongue was ready for exertion; and she began to chatter forth all the events of the journey, without heeding much whether she were listened to or not, till having come to the end of her breath, she saw that Mrs. Lacy was leaning back in her chair, her eyes fixed as if her attention had gone away.  Kate thereupon roamed round the room, peeped from the window and saw that it looked into a dull black-looking narrow garden, and then studied the things in the room.  There was a piano, at which she shook her head.  Mary had tried to teach her music; but after a daily fret for six weeks, Mr. Wardour had said it was waste of time and temper for both; and Kate was delighted.  Then she came to a book-case; and there the aunts had kindly placed the books of their own younger days, some of which she had never seen before.  When she had once begun on the “Rival Crusoes,” she gave Mrs. Lacy no more trouble, except to rouse her from it to drink her tea, and then go and be dressed.

The maid managed the white muslin so as to make her look very nice; but before she had gone half way down-stairs, there was a voice behind—“My Lady! my Lady!”

She did not turn, not remembering that she herself must be meant; and the maid, running after her, caught her rather sharply, and showed her her own hand, all black and grimed.

“How tiresome!” cried she.  “Why, I only just washed it!”

“Yes, my Lady; but you took hold of the balusters all the way down.  And your forehead!  Bless me! what would Lady Barbara say?”

For Kate had been trying to peep through the balusters into the hall below, and had of course painted her brow with London blacks.  She made one of her little impatient gestures, and thought she was very hardly used—dirt stuck upon her, and brambles tore her like no one else.

She got safely down this time, and went into the drawing-room with Mrs. Lacy, there taking a voyage of discovery among the pretty things, knowing she must not touch, but asking endless questions, some of which Mrs. Lacy answered in her sad indifferent way, others she could not answer, and Kate was rather vexed at her not seeming to care to know.  Kate had not yet any notion of caring for other people’s spirits and feelings; she never knew what to do for them, and so tried to forget all about them.

The aunts came in, and with them Mr. Wardour.  She was glad to run up to him, and drag him to look at a group in white Parian under a glass, that had delighted her very much.  She knew it was Jupiter’s Eagle; but who was feeding it?  “Ganymede,” said Mr. Wardour; and Kate, who always liked mythological stories, went on most eagerly talking about the legend of the youth who was borne away to be the cup-bearer of the gods.  It was a thing to make her forget about the aunts and everybody else; and Mr. Wardour helped her out, as he generally did when her talk was neither foolish nor ill-timed but he checked her when he thought she was running on too long, and went himself to talk to Mrs. Lacy, while Kate was obliged to come to her aunts, and stood nearest to Lady Jane, of whom she was least afraid.

“You seem quite at home with all the heathen gods, my dear,” said Lady Jane; “how come you to know them so well?”

“In Charlie’s lesson-books, you know,” said Kate; and seeing that her aunt did not know, she went on to say, “there are notes and explanations.  And there is a Homer—an English one, you know; and we play at it.”

“We seem to have quite a learned lady here!” said aunt Barbara, in the voice Kate did not like.  “Do you learn music?”

“No; I haven’t got any ear; and I hate it!”

“Oh!” said Lady Barbara drily; and Kate seeing Mr. Wardour’s eyes fixed on her rather anxiously, recollected that hate was not a proper word, and fell into confusion.

“And drawing?” said her aunt.

“No; but I want to—”

“Oh!” again said Lady Barbara, looking at Kate’s fingers, which in her awkwardness she was apparently dislocating in a method peculiar to herself.

However, it was soon over, for it was already later than Kate’s home bed-time; she bade everyone good-night, and was soon waited on by Mrs. Bartley, the maid, in her own luxurious little room.

But luxurious as it was, Kate for the first time thoroughly missed home.  The boarded floor, the old crib, the deal table, would have been welcome, if only Sylvia had been there.  She had never gone to bed without Sylvia in her life.  And now she thought with a pang that Sylvia was longing for her, and looking at her empty crib, thinking too, it might be, that Kate had cared more for her grandeur than for the parting.

Not only was it sorrowful to be lonely, but also Kate was one of the silly little girls, to whom the first quarter of an hour in bed was a time of fright.  Sylvia had no fears, and always accounted for the odd noises and strange sights that terrified her companion.  She never believed that the house was on fire, even though the moon made very bright sparkles; she always said the sounds were the servants, the wind, or the mice; and never would allow that thieves would steal little girls, or anything belonging to themselves.  Or if she were fast asleep, her very presence gave a feeling of protection.

But when the preparations were very nearly over, and Kate began to think of the strange room, and the roar of carriages in the streets sounded so unnatural, her heart failed her, and the fear of being alone quite overpowered her dread of the grave staid Mrs. Bartley, far more of being thought a silly little girl.

“Please please, Mrs. Bartley,” she said in a trembling voice, “are you going away?”

“Yes, my Lady; I am going down to supper, when I have placed my Lady Jane’s and my Lady Barbara’s things.”

“Then please—please,” said Kate, in her most humble and insinuating voice, “do leave the door open while you are doing it.”

“Very well, my Lady,” was the answer, in a tone just like that in which Lady Barbara said “Oh!”

And the door stayed open; but Kate could not sleep.  There seemed to be the rattle and bump of the train going on in her bed; the gas-lights in the streets below came in unnaturally, and the noises were much more frightful and unaccountable than any she had ever heard at home.  Her eyes spread with fright, instead of closing in sleep; then came the longing yearning for Sylvia, and tears grew hot in them; and by the time Mrs. Bartley had finished her preparations, and gone down, her distress had grown so unbearable, that she absolutely began sobbing aloud, and screaming, “Papa!”  She knew he would be very angry, and that she should hear that such folly was shameful in a girl of her age; but any anger would be better than this dreadful loneliness.  She screamed louder and louder; and she grew half frightened, half relieved, when she heard his step, and a buzz of voices on the stairs; and then there he was, standing by her, and saying gravely, “What is the matter, Kate?”

“O Papa, Papa, I want—I want Sylvia!—I am afraid!”  Then she held her breath, and cowered under the clothes, ready for a scolding; but it was not his angry voice.  “Poor child!” he said quietly and sadly.  “You must put away this childishness, my dear.  You know that you are not really alone, even in a strange place.”

“No, no, Papa; but I am afraid—I cannot bear it!”

“Have you said the verse that helps you to bear it, Katie?”

“I could not say it without Sylvia.”

She heard him sigh; and then he said, “You must try another night, my Katie, and think of Sylvia saying it at home in her own room.  You will meet her prayers in that way.  Now let me hear you say it.”

Kate repeated, but half choked with sobs, “I lay me down in peace,” and the rest of the calm words, with which she had been taught to lay herself in bed; but at the end she cried, “O Papa, don’t go!”

“I must go, my dear: I cannot stay away from your aunts.  But I will tell you what to do to-night, and other nights when I shall be away: say to yourself the ninety-first Psalm.  I think you know it—‘Whoso abideth under the defence of the Most High—’”

“I think I do know it.”

“Try to say it to yourself, and then the place will seem less dreary, because you will feel Who is with you.  I will look in once more before I go away, and I think you will be asleep.”

And though Kate tried to stay awake for him, asleep she was.

CHAPTER III

In a very few days, Kate had been settled into the ways of the household in Bruton Street; and found one day so like another, that she sometimes asked herself whether she had not been living there years instead of days.

She was always to be ready by half-past seven.  Her French maid, Josephine, used to come in at seven, and wash and dress her quietly, for if there were any noise Aunt Barbara would knock and be displeased.  Aunt Barbara rose long before that time, but she feared lest Aunt Jane should be disturbed in her morning’s sleep; and Kate thought she had the ears of a dragon for the least sound of voice or laugh.

At half-past seven, Kate met Mrs. Lacy in the school-room, read the Psalms and Second Lesson, and learnt some answers to questions on the Catechism, to be repeated to Lady Barbara on a Sunday.  For so far from playing at cards in a bird-of-paradise turban all Sunday, the aunts were quite as particular about these things as Mr. Wardour—more inconveniently so, the countess thought; for he always let her answer his examinations out of her own head, and never gave her answers to learn by heart; “Answers that I know before quite well,” said Kate, “only not made tiresome with fine words.”

“That is not a right way of talking, Lady Caergwent,” gravely said Mrs. Lacy; and Kate gave herself an ill-tempered wriggle, and felt cross and rebellious.

It was a trial; but if Kate had taken it humbly, she would have found that even the stiff hard words and set phrases gave accuracy to her ideas; and the learning of the texts quoted would have been clear gain, if she had been in a meeker spirit.

This done, Mrs. Lacy gave her a music-lesson.  This was grievous work, for the question was not how the learning should be managed, but whether the thing should be learnt at all.

Kate had struggled hard against it.  She informed her aunts that Mary had tried to teach her for six weeks in vain, and that she had had a bad mark every day; that Papa had said it was all nonsense, and that talents could not be forced; and that Armyn said she had no more ear than an old pea-hen.

To which Lady Barbara had gravely answered, that Mr. Wardour could decide as he pleased while Katharine was under his charge, but that it would be highly improper that she should not learn the accomplishments of her station.

“Only I can’t learn,” said Kate, half desperate; “you will see that it is no use, Aunt Barbara.”

“I shall do my duty, Katharine,” was all the answer she obtained; and she pinched her chair with suppressed passion.

Lady Barbara was right in saying that it was her duty to see that the child under her charge learnt what is usually expected of ladies; and though Kate could never acquire music enough to give pleasure to others, yet the training and discipline were likely not only to improve her ear and untamed voice, but to be good for her whole character—that is, if she had made a good use of them.  But in these times, being usually already out of temper with the difficult answers of the Catechism questions, and obliged to keep in her pettish feelings towards what concerned sacred things, she let all out in the music lesson, and with her murmurs and her inattention, her yawns and her blunders, rendered herself infinitely more dull and unmusical than nature had made her, and was a grievous torment to poor Mrs. Lacy, and her patient, “One, two, three—now, my dear.”

Kate thought it was Mrs. Lacy who tormented her!  I wonder which was the worse to the other!  At any rate, Mrs. Lacy’s heavy eyes looked heavier, and she moved as though wearied out for the whole day by the time the clock struck nine, and released them; whilst her pupil, who never was cross long together, took a hop, skip, and jump, to the dining-room, and was as fresh as ever in the eager hope that the post would bring a letter from home.

Lady Barbara read prayers in the dining-room at nine, and there breakfasted with Kate and Mrs. Lacy, sending up a tray to Lady Jane in her bed-room.  Those were apt to be grave breakfasts; not like the merry mornings at home, when chatter used to go on in half whispers between the younger ones, with laughs, breaking out in sudden gusts, till a little over-loudness brought one of Mary’s good-natured “Hushes,” usually answered with, “O Mary, such fun!”

It was Lady Barbara’s time for asking about all the lessons of the day before; and though these were usually fairly done, and Mrs. Lacy was always a kind reporter, it was rather awful; and what was worse, were the strictures on deportment.  For it must be confessed, that Lady Caergwent, though neatly and prettily made, with delicate little feet and hands, and a strong upright back, was a remarkably awkward child; and the more she was lectured, the more ungraceful she made herself—partly from thinking about it, and from fright making her abrupt, partly from being provoked.  She had never been so ungainly at Oldburgh; she never was half so awkward in the school-room, as she would be while taking her cup of tea from Lady Barbara, or handing the butter to her governess.  And was it not wretched to be ordered to do it again, and again, and again, (each time worse than the last—the fingers more crooked, the elbow more stuck out, the shoulder more forward than before), when there was a letter in Sylvia’s writing lying on the table unopened?

And whereas it had been the fashion at St. James’s Parsonage to compare Kate’s handing her plate to a chimpanzee asking for nuts, it was hard that in Bruton Street these manners should be attributed to the barbarous country in which she had grown up!  But that, though Kate did not know it, was very much her own fault.  She could never be found fault with but she answered again.  She had been scarcely broken of replying and justifying herself, even to Mr. Wardour, and had often argued with Mary till he came in and put a sudden sharp stop to it; and now she usually defended herself with “Papa says—” or “Mary says—” and though she really thought she spoke the truth, she made them say such odd things, that it was no wonder Lady Barbara thought they had very queer notions of education, and that her niece had nothing to do but to unlearn their lessons.  Thus:

“Katharine, easy-chairs were not meant for little girls to lounge in.”

“Oh, Papa says he doesn’t want one always to sit upright and stupid.”

So Lady Barbara was left to suppose that Mr. Wardour’s model attitude for young ladies was sitting upon one leg in an easy-chair, with the other foot dangling, the forehead against the back, and the arm of the chair used as a desk!  How was she to know that this only meant that he had once had the misfortune to express his disapproval of the high-backed long-legged school-room chairs formerly in fashion?  In fact, Kate could hardly be forbidden anything without her replying that Papa or Mary always let her do it; till at last she was ordered, very decidedly, never again to quote Mr. and Miss Wardour, and especially not to call him Papa.