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 welclass="underline" 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?"