"I am sorry, Aunt Barbara," she said; "I was very self-willed; I ought not to have fancied things, nor said you used me ill, and wanted me to tell stories."
Kate's heart was lighter; though it beat so terribly as she said those words. She knew that they pleased ONE of the two who were present, and she knew they were right.
"It is well you should be so far sensible of your misconduct," said Lady Barbara; but her voice was as dry and hard as ever, and Mr. Wardour added, "She is sincerely sorry; it is from her voluntary confession that I know how much trouble she has given you; and I think, if you will kindly forgive her, that you will find her less self-willed in future."
And he shoved Kate a little forward, squeezing her hand, and trying to withdraw his own. She perceived that he meant that she ought to ask pardon; and though it went against her more than her first speech had done, she contrived to say, "I do beg pardon, Aunt Barbara; I will try to do better."
"My pardon is one thing, Katharine," said Lady Barbara. "If your sorrow is real, of course I forgive you;" and she took Kate's right- hand--the left was still holding by the fingers' ends to Mr. Wardour. "But the consequences of such behaviour are another consideration. My personal pardon cannot, and ought not, to avert them--as I am sure you must perceive, Mr. Wardour," she added, as the frightened child retreated upon him. Those consequences of Aunt Barbara's were fearful things! Mr. Wardour said something, to which Kate scarcely attended in her alarm, and her aunt went on -
"For Lady Caergwent's own sake, I shall endeavour to keep this most unfortunate step as much a secret as possible. I believe that scarcely anyone beyond this house is aware of it; and I hope that your family will perceive the necessity of being equally cautious."
Mr. Wardour bowed, and assented.
"But," added Lady Barbara, "it has made it quite impossible for my sister and myself to continue to take the charge of her. My sister's health has suffered from the constant noise and restlessness of a child in the house: the anxiety and responsibility are far too much for her; and in addition to this, she had such severe nervous seizures from the alarm of my niece's elopement, that nothing would induce me to subject her to a recurrence of such agitation. We must receive the child for the present, of course; but as soon as my brother returns, and can attend to business, the matter must be referred to the Lord Chancellor, and an establishment formed, with a lady at the head, who may have authority and experience to deal with such an ungovernable nature."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Wardour, "under these circumstances it might be convenient for me to take her home again for the present."
Kate quivered with hope; but that was far too good to be true; Lady Barbara gave a horrid little cough, and there was a sound almost of offence in her "Thank you, you are very kind, but that would be quite out of the question. I am at present responsible for my niece."
"I thought, perhaps," said Mr. Wardour, as an excuse for the offer, "that as Lady Jane is so unwell, and Colonel Umfraville in so much affliction, it might be a relief to part with her at present."
"Thank you," again said Lady Barbara, as stiffly as if her throat were lined with whalebone; "no inconvenience can interfere with my duty."
Mr. Wardour knew there was no use in saying any more, and inquired after Lady Jane. She had, it appeared, been very ill on Saturday evening, and had not since left her room. Mr. Wardour then said that Kate had not been aware, till a few hours ago, of the death of her cousin, and inquired anxiously after the father and mother; but Lady Barbara would not do more than answer direct questions, and only said that her nephew had been too much weakened to bear the journey, and had sunk suddenly at Alexandria, and that his father was, she feared, very unwell. She could not tell how soon he was likely to be in England. Then she thanked Mr. Wardour for having brought Lady Caergwent home, and offered him some luncheon; but in such a grave grand way, that it was plain that she did not want him to eat it, and, feeling that he could do no more good, he kissed poor Kate and wished Lady Barbara good-bye.
Poor Kate stood, drooping, too much constrained by dismay even to try to cling to him, or run after him to the foot of the stairs.
"Now, Katharine," said her aunt, "come up with me to your Aunt Jane's room. She has been so much distressed about you, that she will not be easy till she has seen you."
Kate followed meekly; and found Aunt Jane sitting by the fire in her own room, looking flushed, hot, and trembling. She held out her arms, and Kate ran into them; but neither of them dared to speak, and Lady Barbara stood up, saying, "She says she is very sorry, and thus we may forgive her; as I know you do all the suffering you have undergone on her account."
Lady Jane held the child tighter, and Kate returned her kisses with all her might; but the other aunt said, "That will do. She must not be too much for you again." And they let go as if a cold wind had blown between them.
"Did Mr. Wardour bring her home?" asked Lady Jane.
"Yes; and was kind enough to propose taking her back again," was the answer, with a sneer, that made Kate feel desperately angry, though she did not understand it.
In truth, Lady Barbara was greatly displeased with the Wardours. She had always been led to think her niece's faults the effect of their management; and she now imagined that there had been some encouragement of the child's discontent to make her run away; and that if they had been sufficiently shocked and concerned, the truant would have been brought home much sooner. It all came of her having allowed her niece to associate with those children at Bournemouth. She would be more careful for the future.
Careful, indeed, she was! She had come to think of her niece as a sort of small wild beast that must never be let out of sight of some trustworthy person, lest she should fly away again.
A daily governess, an elderly person, very grave and silent, came in directly after breakfast, walked with the Countess, and heard the lessons; and after her departure, Kate was always to be in the room with her aunts, and never was allowed to sit in the schoolroom and amuse herself alone; but her tea was brought into the dining-room while her aunts were at dinner, and morning, noon, and night, she knew that she was being watched.
It was very bitter to her. It seemed to take all the spirit away from her, as if she did not care for books, lessons, or anything else. Sometimes her heart burnt with hot indignation, and she would squeeze her hands together, or wring round her handkerchief in a sort of misery; but it never got beyond that; she never broke out, for she was depressed by what was still worse, the sense of shame. Lady Barbara had not said many words, but had made her feel, in spite of having forgiven her, that she had done a thing that would be a disgrace to her for ever; a thing that would make people think twice before they allowed their children to associate with her; and that put her below the level of other girls. The very pain that Lady Barbara took to hush it up, her fears lest it should come to the ears of the De la Poers, her hopes that it MIGHT not be necessary to reveal it to her brother, assisted to weigh down Kate with a sense of the heinousness of what she had done, and sunk her so that she had no inclination to complain of the watchfulness around her. And Aunt Jane's sorrowful kindness went to her heart.
"How COULD you do it, my dear?" she said, in such a wonderful wistful tone, when Kate was alone with her.
Kate hung her head. She could not think now.
"It is so sad," added Lady Jane; "I hoped we might have gone on so nicely together. And now I hope your Uncle Giles will not hear of it. He would be so shocked, and never trust you again."
"YOU will trust me, when I have been good a long time, Aunt Jane?"
"My dear, I would trust you any time, you know; but then that's no use. I can't judge; and your Aunt Barbara says, after such lawlessness, you need very experienced training to root out old associations."