But there was something to come before this happy return to old times. As soon as breakfast was over Mr Wardour said, "Now, Kate, I want you." And then she knew what was coming; and somehow, she did not feel exactly the same about her exploit and its causes by broad daylight, now that she was cool. Perhaps she would have been glad to hang back; yet on the whole, she had a great deal to say to "Papa," and it was a relief, though rather terrific, to find herself alone with him in the study.
"Now, Kate," said he again, with his arm round her, as she stood by him, "will you tell me what led you to this very sad and strange proceeding?"
Kate hung her head, and ran her fingers along the mouldings of his chair.
"Why was it, my dear?" asked Mr. Wardour.
"It was--" and she grew bolder at the sound of her own voice, and more confident in the goodness of her cause--"it was because Aunt Barbara said I must write what was not true, and--and I'll never tell a falsehood--never, for no one!" and her eyes flashed.
"Gently, Kate," he said, laying his hand upon hers; "I don't want to know what you never WILL do, only what you have done. What was this falsehood?"
"Why, Papa, the other Sylvia--Sylvia Joanna, you know--has her birthday to-day, and we settled at Bournemouth that I should spend the day with her; and on Saturday, when Aunt Barbara heard of it, she said she did not want me to be intimate there, and that I must not go, and told me to write a note to say she had made a previous engagement for me."
"And do you know that she had not done so?"
"O Papa! she could not; for when I said I would not write a lie, she never said it was true."
"Was that what you said to your aunt?"
"Yes,"--and Kate hung her head--"I was in a passion."
"Then, Kate, I do not wonder that Lady Barbara insisted on obedience, instead of condescending to argue with a child who could be so insolent."
"But, Papa," said Kate, abashed for a moment, then getting eager, "she does tell fashionable falsehoods; she says she is not at home when she is, and--"
"Stay, Kate; it is not for you to judge of grown people's doings. Neither I nor Mary would like to use that form of denying ourselves; but it is usually understood to mean only not ready to receive visitors. In the same way, this previous engagement was evidently meant to make the refusal less discourteous, and you were not even certain it did not exist."
"My Italian mistress did want to come on Monday," faltered Kate, "but it was not 'previous.'"
"Then, Kate, who was it that went beside the mark in letting us believe that Lady Barbara locked you up to make you tell falsehoods?"
"Indeed, Papa, I did not say locked--Charlie and Sylvia said that."
"But did you correct them?"
"O Papa, I did not mean it! But I am naughty now! I always am naughty, so much worse than I used to be at home. Indeed I am, and I never do get into a good vein now. O Papa, Papa, can't you get me out of it all? If you could only take me home again! I don't think my aunts want to keep me--they say I am so bad and horrid, and that I make Aunt Jane ill. Oh, take me back, Papa!"
He did take her on his knee, and held her close to him. "I wish I could, my dear," he said; "I should like to have you again! but it cannot be. It is a different state of life that has been appointed for you; and you would not be allowed to make your home with me, with no older a person than Mary to manage for you. If your aunt had not been taken from us, then--" and Kate ventured to put her arm round his neck--"then this would have been your natural home; but as things are with us, I could not make my house such as would suit the requirements of those who arrange for you. And, my poor child, I fear we let the very faults spring up that are your sorrow now."
"Oh no, no, Papa, you helped me! Aunt Barbara only makes me--oh! may I say?--hate her! for indeed there is no helping it! I can't be good there."
"What is it? What do you mean, my dear? What is your difficulty? And I will try to help you."
Poor Kate found it not at all easy to explain when she came to particulars. "Always cross," was the clearest idea in her mind; "never pleased with her, never liking anything she did--not punishing, but much worse." She had not made out her case, she knew; but she could only murmur again, "It all went wrong, and I was very unhappy."
Mr. Wardour sighed from the bottom of his heart; he was very sorrowful, too, for the child that was as his own. And then he went back and thought of his early college friend, and of his own wife who had so fondled the little orphan--all that was left of her sister. It was grievous to him to put that child away from him when she came clinging to him, and saying she was unhappy, and led into faults.
"It will be better when your uncle comes home," he began.
"Oh no, Papa, indeed it will not. Uncle Giles is more stern than Aunt Barbara. Aunt Jane says it used to make her quite unhappy to see how sharp he was with poor Giles and Frank."
"I never saw him in his own family," said Mr. Wardour thoughtfully; "but this I know, Kate, that your father looked up to him, young as he then was, more than to anyone; that he was the only person among them all who ever concerned himself about you or your mother; and that on the two occasions when I saw him, I thought him very like your father."
"I had rather he was like you, Papa," sighed Kate. "Oh, if I was but your child!" she added, led on by a little involuntary pressure of his encircling arm.
"Don't let us talk of what is not, but of what is," said Mr. Wardour; "let us try to look on things in their right light. It has been the will of Heaven to call you, my little girl, to a station where you will, if you live, have many people's welfare depending on you, and your example will be of weight with many. You must go through training for it, and strict training may be the best for you. Indeed, it must be the best, or it would not have been permitted to befall you."
"But it does not make me good, it makes me naughty."
"No, Kate; nothing, nobody can make you naughty; nothing is strong enough to do that."
Kate knew what he meant, and hung her head.
"My dear, I do believe that you feel forlorn and dreary, and miss the affection you have had among us; but have you ever thought of the Friend who is closest of all to us, and who is especially kind to a fatherless child?"
"I can't--I can't feel it--Papa, I can't. And then, why was it made so that I must go away from you and all?"
"You will see some day, though you cannot see now, my dear. If you use it rightly, you will feel the benefit. Meantime, you must take it on trust, just as you do my love for you, though I am going to carry you back."
"Yes; but I can feel you loving me."
"My dear child, it only depends on yourself to feel your Heavenly Father loving you. If you will set yourself to pray with your heart, and think of His goodness to you, and ask Him for help and solace in all your present vexatious and difficulties, never mind how small, you WILL become conscious of his tender pity and love to you."
"Ah! but I am not good!"
"But He can make you so, Kate. Your have been wearied by religious teaching hitherto, have you not?"
"Except when it was pretty and like poetry," whispered Kate.
"Put your heart to your prayers now, Kate. Look in the Psalms for verses to suit your loneliness; recollect that you meet us in spirit when you use the same Prayers, read the same Lessons, and think of each other. Or, better still, carry your troubles to Him; and when you HAVE felt His help, you will know what that is far better than I can tell you."
Kate only answered with a long breath; not feeling as if she could understand such comfort, but with a resolve to try.
"And now," said Mr. Wardour, "I must take you home to-morrow, and I will speak for you to Lady Barbara, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but, Kate, I do not think you quite understand what a shocking proceeding this was of yours."