Countess Kate

Then some one knocked; she would not answer.  Then came a voice, saying, “Katharine.”  It was Aunt Barbara’s, but it was rather wavering.  She would not answer, so the door was opened, and the steps, scarcely audible in the rustling of the silk, came in; and Kate felt that her aunt was looking at her, wondered whether she had better put out her head, ask pardon, and have it over, but was afraid; and presently heard the moiré antique go sweeping away again.

And then the foolish child heartily wished she had spoken, and was seized with desperate fears of the morrow, more of the shame of hearing of her tears than of any punishment.  Why had she not been braver?

After a time came a light, and Josephine moving about quietly, and putting away the clothes that had been left on the floor.  Kate was not afraid of her, but her caressing consolations and pity would have only added to the miserable sense of shame; so there was no sign, no symptom of being awake, though it was certain that before Josephine went away, the candle was held so as to cast a light over all that was visible of the face.  Kate could not help hearing the low muttering of the Frenchwoman, who was always apt to talk to herself: “Asleep!  Ah, yes!  She sleeps profoundly.  How ugly la petite has made herself!  What cries!  Ah, she is like Miladi her aunt! a demon of a temper!”

Kate restrained herself till the door was shut again, and then rolled over and over, till she had made a strange entanglement of her bed-clothes, and brought her passion to an end by making a mummy of herself, bound hand and foot, snapping with her month all the time, as if she longed to bite.

“O you horrible Frenchwoman!  You are a flatterer, a base flatterer; such as always haunt the great!  I hate it all.  I a demon of a temper?  I like Aunt Barbara?  Oh, you wretch!  I’ll tell Aunt Barbara a to-morrow, and get you sent away!”

Those were some of Kate’s fierce angry thoughts in her first vexation; but with all her faults, she was not a child who ever nourished rancour or malice; and though she had been extremely wounded at first, yet she quickly forgave.

By the time she had smoothed out her sheet, and settled matters between it and her blanket, she had begun to think more coolly.  “No, no, I won’t.  It would be horribly dishonourable and all that to tell Aunt Barbara.  Josephine was only thinking out loud; and she can’t help what she thinks.  I was very naughty; no wonder she thought so.  Only next time she pets me, I will say to her, ‘You cannot deceive me, Josephine; I like the plain truth better than honeyed words.’”

And now that Kate had arrived at the composition of a fine speech that would never be made, it was plain that her mind was pretty well composed.  That little bit of forgiveness, though it had not even cost an effort, had been softening, soothing, refreshing; it had brought peacefulness; and Kate lay, not absolutely asleep, but half dreaming, in the summer twilight, in the soft undefined fancies of one tired out with agitation.

She was partly roused by the various sounds in the house, but not startled—the light nights of summer always diminished her alarms; and she heard the clocks strike, and the bell ring for prayers, the doors open and shut, all mixed in with her hazy fancies.  At last came the silken rustlings up the stairs again, and the openings of bed-room doors close to her.

Kate must have gone quite to sleep, for she did not know when the door was opened, and how the soft voices had come in that she heard over her.

“Poor little dear!  How she has tossed her bed about!  I wonder if we could set the clothes straight without wakening her.”

How very sweet and gentle Aunt Jane’s voice was in that low cautious whisper.

Some one—and Kate knew the peculiar sound of Mrs. Lacy’s crape—was moving the bed-clothes as gently as she could.

“Poor little dear!” again said Lady Jane; “it is very sad to see a child who has cried herself to sleep.  I do wish we could manage her better.  Do you think the child is happy?” she ended by asking in a wistful voice.

“She has very high spirits,” was the answer.

“Ah, yes! her impetuosity; it is her misfortune, poor child!  Barbara is so calm and resolute, that—that—”  Was Lady Jane really going to regret anything in her sister?  She did not say it, however; but Kate heard her sigh, and add, “Ah, well! if I were stronger, perhaps we could make her happier; but I am so nervous.  I must try not to look distressed when her spirits do break out, for perhaps it is only natural.  And I am so sorry to have brought all this on her, and spoilt those poor children’s pleasure!”

Lady Jane bent over the child, and Kate reared herself up on a sudden, threw her arms round her neck, and whispered, “Aunt Jane, dear Aunt Jane, I’ll try never to frighten you again!  I am so sorry.”

“There, there; have I waked you?  Don’t, my dear; your aunt will hear.  Go to sleep again.  Yes, do.”

But Aunt Jane was kissing and fondling all the time; and the end of this sad naughty evening was, that Kate went to sleep with more softness, love, and repentance in her heart, than there had been since her coming to Bruton Street.

CHAPTER VII

Lady Caergwent was thoroughly ashamed and bumbled by that unhappy evening.  She looked so melancholy and subdued in the morning, with her heavy eyelids and inflamed eyes, and moved so meekly and sadly, without daring to look up, that Lady Barbara quite pitied her, and said—more kindly than she had ever spoken to her before:

“I see you are sorry for the exposure last night, so we will say no more about it.  I will try to forget it.  I hope our friends may.”

That hope sounded very much like “I do not think they will;” and truly Kate felt that it was not in the nature of things that they ever should.  She should never have forgotten the sight of a little girl in that frenzy of passion!  No, she was sure that their mamma and papa knew all about it, and that she should never be allowed to play with them again, and she could not even wish to meet them, she should be miserably ashamed, and would not know which way to look.

She said not one word about meeting them, and for the first day or two even begged to walk in the square instead of the park; and she was so good and steady with her lessons, and so quiet in her movements, that she scarcely met a word of blame for a whole week.

One morning, while she was at breakfast with Lady Barbara and Mrs. Lacy, the unwonted sound of a carriage stopping, and of a double knock, was heard.  In a moment the colour flushed into Lady Barbara’s face, and her eyes lighted: then it passed away into a look of sadness.  It had seemed to her for a moment as if the bright young nephew who had been the light and hope of her life, were going to look in on her; and it had only brought the remembrance that he was gone for ever, and that in his stead there was only the poor little girl, to whom rank was a misfortune, and who seemed as if she would never wear it becomingly.  Kate saw nothing of all this; she was only eager and envious for some change and variety in these long dull days.  It was Lord de la Poer and his daughter Adelaide, who the next moment were in the room; and she remembered instantly that she had heard that this was to be Adelaide’s birthday, and wished her many happy returns in all due form, her heart beating the while with increasing hope that the visit concerned herself.

And did it not?  Her head swam round with delight and suspense, and she could hardly gather up the sense of the words in which Lord de la Poer was telling Lady Barbara that Adelaide’s birthday was to be spent at the Crystal Palace at Sydenham; that the other girls were gone to the station with their mother, and that he had come round with Adelaide to carry off Kate, and meet the rest at ten o’clock.  Lady de la Poer would have written, but it had only boon settled that morning on finding that he could spare the day.

Kate squeezed Adelaide’s hand in an agony.  Oh! would that aunt let her go?

“You would like to come?” asked Lord de la Poer, bending his pleasant eyes on her.  “Have you ever been there?”

“Never!  Oh, thank you!  I should like it so much!  I never saw any exhibition at all, except once the Gigantic Cabbage!—May I go, Aunt Barbara?”

“Really you are very kind, after—”

“Oh, we never think of afters on birthdays!—Do we, Addie?”

“If you are so very good, perhaps Mrs. Lacy will kindly bring her to meet you.”

“I am sure,” said he, turning courteously to that lady, “that we should be very sorry to give Mrs. Lacy so much trouble.  If this is to be a holiday to everyone, I am sure you would prefer the quiet day.”

No one could look at the sad face and widow’s cap without feeling that so it must be, even without the embarrassed “Thank you, my Lord, if—”

“If—if Katharine were more to be trusted,” began Lady Barbara.

“Now, Barbara,” he said in a drolly serious fashion, “if you think the Court of Chancery would seriously object, say so at once.”

Lady Barbara could not keep the corners of her mouth quite stiff, but she still said, “You do not know what you are undertaking.”

“Do you deliberately tell me that you think myself and Fanny, to say nothing of young Fanny, who is the wisest of us all, unfit to be trusted with this one young lady?” said he, looking her full in the face, and putting on a most comical air: “It is humiliating, I own.”

“Ah! if Katharine were like your own daughters, I should have no fears,” said the aunt.  “But—  However, since you are so good—if she will promise to be very careful—”

“Oh yes, yes, Aunt Barbara!”

“I make myself responsible,” said Lord de la Poer.  “Now, young woman, run off and get the hat; we have no time to lose.”

Kate darted off and galloped up the stairs at a furious pace, shouted “Josephine” at the top; and then, receiving no answer, pulled the bell violently; after which she turned round, and obliged Adelaide with a species of dancing hug, rather to the detriment of that young lady’s muslin jacket.

“I was afraid to look back before,” she breathlessly said, as she released Adelaide; “I felt as if your papa were Orpheus, when

‘Stern Proserpine relented,And gave him back the fair—’

and I was sure Aunt Barbara would catch me like Eurydice, if I only looked back.”

“What a funny girl you are, to be thinking about Orpheus and Eurydice!” said Adelaide.  “Aren’t you glad?”

“Glad?  Ain’t I just! as Charlie would say.  Oh dear! your papa is a delicious man; I’d rather have him for mine than anybody, except Uncle Wardour!”

“I’d rather have him than anyone,” said the little daughter.  “Because he is yours,” said Kate; “but somehow, though he is more funny and good-natured than Uncle Wardour, I wouldn’t—no, I shouldn’t like him so well for a papa.  I don’t think he would punish so well.”

“Punish!” cried Adelaide.  “Is that what you want?  Why, Mamma says children ought to be always pleasure and no trouble to busy fathers.  But there, Kate; you are not getting ready—and we are to be at the station at ten.”

“I am waiting for Josephine!  Why doesn’t she come?” said Kate, ringing violently again.

“Why don’t you get ready without her?”

“I don’t know where anything is!  It is very tiresome of her, when she knows I never dress myself,” said Kate fretfully.

“Don’t you?  Why, Grace and I always dress ourselves, except for the evening.  Let me help you.  Are not those your boots?”

Kate rushed to the bottom of the attic stairs, and shouted “Josephine” at the top of her shrill voice; then, receiving no answer, she returned, condescended to put on the boots that Adelaide held up to her, and noisily pulled out some drawers; but not seeing exactly what she wanted, she again betook herself to screams of her maid’s name, at the third of which out burst Mrs. Bartley in a regular state of indignation: “Lady Caergwent!  Will your Ladyship hold your tongue!  There’s Lady Jane startled up, and it’s a mercy if her nerves recover it the whole day—making such a noise as that!”

“But Josephine won’t come, and I’m going out, Bartley,” said Kate piteously.  “Where is Josephine?”

“Gone out, my Lady, so it is no use making a piece of work,” said Bartley crossly, retreating to Lady Jane.

Kate was ready to cry; but behold, that handy little Adelaide had meantime picked out a nice black silk cape, with hat and feather, gloves and handkerchief, which, if not what Kate had intended, were nice enough for anything, and would have—some months ago—seemed to the orphan at the parsonage like robes of state.  Kind Adelaide held them up so triumphantly, that Kate could not pout at their being only everyday things; and as she began to put them on, out came Mrs. Bartley again, by Lady Jane’s orders, pounced upon Lady Caergwent, and made her repent of all wishes for assistance by beginning upon her hair, and in spite of all wriggles and remonstrances, dressing her in the peculiarly slow and precise manner by which a maid can punish a troublesome child; until finally Kate—far too much irritated for a word of thanks, tore herself out of her hands, caught up her gloves, and flew down-stairs as if her life depended on her speed.  She thought the delay much longer than it had really been, for she found Lord de la Poer talking so earnestly to her aunt, that he hardly looked up when she came in—something about her Uncle Giles in India, and his coming home—which seemed to be somehow becoming possible—though at a great loss to himself; but there was no making it out; and in a few minutes he rose, and after some fresh charges from Lady Barbara to her niece “not to forgot herself,” Kate was handed into the carriage, and found herself really off.

Then the tingle of wild impatience and suspense subsided, and happiness began!  It had not been a good beginning, but it was very charming now.

Adelaide and her father were full of jokes together, so quick and bright that Kate listened instead of talking.  She had almost lost the habit of merry chatter, and it did not come to her quickly again; but she was greatly entertained; and thus they came to the station, where Lady de la Poer and her other three girls were awaiting them, and greeted Kate with joyful faces.

They were the more relieved at the arrival of the three, because the station was close and heated, and it was a very warm summer day, so that the air was extremely oppressive.

“It feels like thunder,” said some one.  And thenceforth Kate’s perfect felicity was clouded.  She had a great dislike to a thunder-storm, and she instantly began asking her neighbours if they really thought it would be thunder.

“I hope it will,” said Lady Fanny; “it would cool the air, and sound so grand in those domes.”

Kate thought this savage, and with an imploring look asked Lady de la Poer if she thought there would be a storm.

“I can’t see the least sign of one,” was the answer.  “See how clear the sky is!” as they steamed out of the station.

“But do you think there will be one to-day?” demanded Kate.

“I do not expect it,” said Lady de la Poer, smiling; “and there is no use in expecting disagreeables.”

“Disagreeables!  O Mamma, it would be such fun,” cried Grace, “if we only had a chance of getting wet through!”

Here Lord de la Poer adroitly called off the public attention from the perils of the clouds, by declaring that he wanted to make out the fourth line of an advertisement on the banks, of which he said he had made out one line as he was whisked by on each journey he had made; and as it was four times over in four different languages, he required each damsel to undertake one; and there was a great deal of laughing over which it should be that should undertake each language.  Fanny and Mary were humble, and sure they could never catch the German; and Kate, more enterprising, undertook the Italian.  After all, while they were chattering about it, they went past the valuable document, and were come in sight of the “monsters” in the Gardens; and Lord de la Poer asked Kate if she would like to catch a pretty little frog; to which Mary responded, “Oh, what a tadpole it must have been!” and the discovery that her friends had once kept a preserve of tadpoles to watch them turn into frogs, was so delightful as entirely to dissipate all remaining thoughts of thunder, and leave Kate free for almost breathless amazement at the glittering domes of glass, looking like enormous bubbles in the sun.

What a morning that was, among the bright buds and flowers, the wonders of nature and art all together!  It was to be a long day, and no hurrying; so the party went from court to court at their leisure, sat down, and studied all that they cared for, or divided according to their tastes.  Fanny and Mary wanted time for the wonderful sculptures on the noble gates in the Italian court; but the younger girls preferred roaming more freely, so Lady de la Poer sat down to take care of them, while her husband undertook to guide the wanderings of the other three.

He particularly devoted himself to Kate, partly in courtesy as to the guest of the party, partly because, as he said, he felt himself responsible for her; and she was in supreme enjoyment, talking freely to one able and willing to answer her remarks and questions, and with the companionship of girls of her own age besides.  She was most of all delighted with the Alhambra—the beauty of it was to her like a fairy tale; and she had read Washington Irving’s “Siege of Granada,” so that she could fancy the courts filled with the knightly Moors, who were so noble that she could not think why they were not Christians—nay, the tears quite came into her eyes as she looked up in Lord de la Poer’s face, and asked why nobody converted the Abencerrages instead of fighting with them!

It was a pity that Kate always grew loud when she was earnest; and Lord de la Poer’s interest in the conversation was considerably lessened by the discomfort of seeing some strangers looking surprised at the five syllables in the squeaky voice coming out of the mouth of so small a lady.

“Gently, my dear,” he softly said; and Kate for a moment felt it hard that the torment about her voice should pursue her even in such moments, and spoil the Alhambra itself.

However, her good humour recovered the next minute, at the Fountain of Lions.  She wanted to know how the Moors came to have lions; she thought she had heard that no Mahometans were allowed to represent any living creature, for fear it should be an idol.  Lord de la Poer said she was quite right, and that the Mahometans think these forms will come round their makers at the last day, demanding to have souls given to them; but that her friends, the Moors of Spain, were much less strict than any others of their faith.  She could see, however, that the carving of such figures was a new art with them, since these lions were very rude and clumsy performances for people who could make such delicate tracery as they had seen within.  And then, while Kate was happily looking with Adelaide at the orange trees that completed the Spanish air of the court, and hoping to see the fountain play in the evening, he told Grace that it was worth while taking people to see sights if they had as much intelligence and observation as Kate had, and did not go gazing idly about, thinking of nothing.

He meant it to stir up his rather indolent-minded Grace—he did not mean the countess to hear it; but some people’s eyes and ears are wonderfully quick at gathering what is to their own credit, and Kate, who had not heard a bit of commendation for a long time, was greatly elated.

Luckily for appearances, she remembered how Miss Edgeworth’s Frank made himself ridiculous by showing off to Mrs. J—, and how she herself had once been overwhelmed by the laughter of the Wardour family for having rehearsed to poor Mrs. Brown all the characters of the gods of the Northmen—Odin, Thor, and all—when she had just learnt them.  So she was more careful than before not to pour out all the little that she knew; and she was glad she had not committed herself, for she had very nearly volunteered the information that Pompeii was overwhelmed by Mount Etna, before she heard some one say Vesuvius, and perceived her mistake, feeling as if she had been rewarded for her modesty like a good child in a book.

She applauded herself much more for keeping back her knowledge till it was wanted, than for having it; but this self-satisfaction looked out in another loop-hole.  She avoided pedantry, but she was too much elated not to let her spirits get the better of her; and when Lady de la Poer and the elder girls came up, they found her in a suppressed state of capering, more like a puppy on its hind logs, than like a countess or any other well-bred child.

The party met under the screen of kings and queens, and there had some dinner, at one of the marble tables that just held them pleasantly.  The cold chicken and tongue were wonderfully good on that hot hungry day, and still better were the strawberries that succeeded them; and oh! what mirth went on all the time!  Kate was chattering fastest of all, and loudest—not to say the most nonsensically.  It was not nice nonsense—that was the worst of it—it was pert and saucy.  It was rather the family habit to laugh at Mary de la Poer for ways that were thought a little fanciful; and Kate caught this up, and bantered without discretion, in a way not becoming towards anybody, especially one some years her elder.  Mary was good-humoured, but evidently did not like being asked if she had stayed in the mediæval court, because she was afraid the great bulls of Nineveh would run at her with their five legs.

“She will be afraid of being teazed by a little goose another time,” said Lord de la Poer, intending to give his little friend a hint that she was making herself very silly; but Kate took it quite another way, and not a pretty one, for she answered, “Dear me, Mary, can’t you say bo to a goose!”

“Say what?” cried Adelaide, who was always apt to be a good deal excited by Kate; and who had been going off into fits of laughter at all these foolish sallies.

“It is not a very nice thing to say,” answered her mother gravely; “so there is no occasion to learn it.”

Kate did take the hint this time, and coloured up to the ears, partly with vexation, partly with shame.  She sat silent and confused for several minutes, till her friends took pity on her, and a few good-natured words about her choice of an ice quite restored her liveliness.  It is well to be good-humoured; but it is unlucky, nay, wrong, when a check from friends without authority to scold, does not suffice to bring soberness instead of rattling giddiness.  Lady de la Poer was absolutely glad to break up the dinner, so as to work off the folly and excitement by moving about, before it should make the little girl expose herself, or infect Adelaide.

They intended to have gone into the gardens till four o’clock, when the fountains were to play; but as they moved towards the great door, they perceived a dark heavy cloud was hiding the sun that had hitherto shone so dazzlingly through the crystal walls.

“That is nice,” said Lady Fanny; “it will be cool and pleasant now before the rain.”

“If the rain is not imminent,” began her father.

“Oh! is it going to be a thunder-storm?” cried Kate.  “Oh dear!  I do so hate thunder!  What shall I do?” cried she; all her excitement turning into terror.

Before anyone could answer her, there was a flash of bright white light before all their eyes, and a little scream.

“She’s struck! she’s struck!” cried Adelaide, her hands before her eyes.

For Kate had disappeared.  No, she was in the great pond, beside which they had been standing, and Mary was kneeling on the edge, holding fast by her frock.  But before the deep voice of the thunder was roaring and reverberating through the vaults, Lord de la Poer had her in his grasp, and the growl had not ceased before she was on her feet again, drenched and trembling, beginning to be the centre of a crowd, who were running together to help or to see the child who had been either struck by lightning or drowned.

“Is she struck?  Will she be blind?” sobbed Adelaide, still with her hands before her eyes; and the inquiry was echoed by the nearer people, while more distant ones told each other that the young lady was blind for life.

“Struck! nonsense!” said Lord de la Poer; “the lightning was twenty miles off at least.  Are you hurt, my dear?”