"Armyn is not a boy, Aunt Jane; he's a man. He is a clerk, you know, and will get a salary in another year."
"A clerk!"
"Yes; in Mr. Brown's office, you know. Aunt Jane, did you ever go out to tea?"
"Yes, my dear; sometimes we drank tea with our little friends in the dolls' tea-cups."
"Oh! you can't think what fun we have when Mrs. Brown asks us to tea. She has got the nicest garden in the world, and a greenhouse, and a great squirt-syringe, I mean, to water it; and we always used to get it, till once, without meaning it, I squirted right through the drawing-room window, and made such a puddle; and Mrs. Brown thought it was Charlie, only I ran in and told of myself, and Mrs. Brown said it was very generous, and gave me a Venetian weight with a little hermit in a snow-storm; only it is worn out now, and won't snow, so I gave it to little Lily when we had the whooping-cough."
By this time Lady Jane was utterly ignorant what the gabble was about, except that Katharine had been in very odd company, and done very strange things with those boys, and she gave a melancholy little sound in the pause; but Kate, taking breath, ran on again -
"It is because Mrs. Brown is not used to educating children, you know, that she fancies one wants a reward for telling the truth; I told her so, but Mary thought it would vex her, and stopped my mouth. Well, then we young ones--that is, Charlie, and Sylvia, and Armyn, and I--drank tea out on the lawn. Mary had to sit up and be company; but we had such fun! There was a great old laurel tree, and Armyn put Sylvia and me up into the fork; and that was our nest, and we were birds, and he fed us with strawberries; and we pretended to be learning to fly, and stood up flapping our frocks and squeaking, and Charlie came under and danced the branches about. We didn't like that; and Armyn said it was a shame, and hunted him away, racing all round the garden; and we scrambled down by ourselves, and came down on the slope. It is a long green slope, right down to the river, all smooth and turfy, you know; and I was standing at the top, when Charlie comes slyly, and saying he would help the little bird to fly, gave me one push, and down I went, roll, roll, tumble, tumble, till Sylvia REALLY thought she heard my neck crack! Wasn't it fun?"
"But the river, my dear!" said Lady Jane, shuddering.
"Oh! there was a good flat place before we came to the river, and I stopped long before that! So then, as we had been the birds of the air, we thought we would be the fishes of the sea; and it was nice and shallow, with dear little caddises and river cray-fish, and great British pearl-shells at the bottom. So we took off our shoes and stockings, and Charlie and Armyn turned up their trousers, and we had such a nice paddling. I really thought I should have got a British pearl then; and you know there were some in the breast-plate of Venus."
"In the river! Did your cousin allow that?"
"Oh yes; we had on our old blue checks; and Mary never minds anything when Armyn is there to take care of us. When they heard in the drawing-room what we had been doing, they made Mary sing 'Auld Lang Syne,' because of 'We twa hae paidlit in the burn frae morning sun till dine;' and whenever in future times I meet Armyn, I mean to say,
'We twa hae paidlit in the burn Frae morning sun till dine; We've wandered many a weary foot Sin auld lang syne.'
Or perhaps I shall be able to sing it, and that will be still prettier."
And Kate sat still, thinking of the prettiness of the scene of the stranger, alone in the midst of numbers, in the splendid drawing- rooms, hearing the sweet voice of the lovely young countess at the piano, singing this touching memorial of the simple days of childhood.
Lady Jane meanwhile worked her embroidery, and thought what wonderful disadvantages the poor child had had, and that Barbara really must not be too severe on her, after she had lived with such odd people, and that it was very fortunate that she had been taken away from them before she had grown any older, or more used to them.
Soon after, Kate gave a specimen of her manners with boys. When she went into the dining-room at luncheon time one wet afternoon, she heard steps on the stairs behind her aunt's, and there appeared a very pleasant-looking gentleman, followed by a boy of about her own age.
"Here is our niece," said Lady Barbara. "Katharine, come and speak to Lord de la Poer."
Kate liked his looks, and the way in which he held out his hand to her; but she knew she should be scolded for her awkward greeting: so she put out her hand as if she had no use of her arm above the elbow, hung down her head, and said "--do;" at least no more was audible.
But there was something comfortable and encouraging in the grasp of the strong large hand over the foolish little fingers; and he quite gave them to his son, whose shake was a real treat; the contact with anything young was like meeting a follow-countryman in a foreign land, though neither as yet spoke.
She found out that the boy's name was Ernest, and that his father was taking him to school, but had come to arrange some business matters for her aunts upon the way. She listened with interest to Lord de la Poer's voice, for she liked it, and was sure he was a greater friend there than any she had before seen. He was talking about Giles--that was her uncle, the Colonel in India; and she first gathered from what was passing that her uncle's eldest and only surviving son, an officer in his own regiment, had never recovered a wound he had received at the relief of Lucknow, and that if he did not get better at Simlah, where his mother had just taken him, his father thought of retiring and bringing him home, though all agreed that it would be a very unfortunate thing that the Colonel should be obliged to resign his command before getting promoted; but they fully thought he would do so, for this was the last of his children; another son had been killed in the Mutiny, and two or three little girls had been born and died in India.
Kate had never known this. Her aunts never told her anything, nor talked over family affairs before her; and she was opening her ears most eagerly, and turning her quick bright eyes from one speaker to the other with such earnest attention, that the guest turned kindly to her, and said, "Do you remember your uncle?"
"Oh dear no! I was a little baby when he went away."
Kate never used DEAR as an adjective except at the beginning of a letter, but always, and very unnecessarily, as an interjection; and this time it was so emphatic as to bring Lady Barbara's eyes on her.
"Did you see either Giles or poor Frank before they went out to him?"
"Oh dear no!"
This time the DEAR was from the confusion that made her always do the very thing she ought not to do.
"No; my niece has been too much separated from her own relations," said Lady Barbara, putting this as an excuse for the "Oh dears."
"I hope Mr. Wardour is quite well," said Lord de la Poer, turning again to Kate.
"Oh yes, quite, thank you;" and then with brightening eyes, she ventured on "Do you know him?"
"I saw him two or three times," he answered with increased kindness of manner. "Will you remember me to him when you write?"
"Very well," said Kate promptly; "but he says all those sort of things are nonsense."
The horror of the two aunts was only kept in check by the good manners that hindered a public scolding; but Lord de la Poer only laughed heartily, and said, "Indeed! What sort of things, may I ask, Lady Caergwent?"
"Why--love, and regards, and remembrances. Mary used to get letters from her school-fellows, all filled with dearest loves, and we always laughed at her; and Armyn used to say them by heart beforehand," said Kate.
"I beg to observe," was the answer, in the grave tone which, however, Kate understood as fun, "that I did not presume to send my love to Mr. Wardour. May not that make the case different?"
"Yes," said Kate meditatively; "only I don't know that your remembrance would be of more use than your love."
"And are we never to send any messages unless they are of use?" This was a puzzling question, and Kate did not immediately reply.
"None for pleasure--eh?"
"Well, but I don't see what would be the pleasure."
"What
, do you consider it pleasurable to be universally forgotten?"
"Nobody ever could forget Pa--my Uncle Wardour," cried Kate, with eager vehemence flashing in her eyes.
"Certainly not," said Lord de la Poer, in a voice as if he were much pleased with her; "he is not a man to be forgotten. It is a privilege to have been brought up by him. But come, Lady Caergwent, since you are so critical, will you be pleased to devise some message for me, that may combine use, pleasure, and my deep respect for him?" and as she sat beside him at the table, he laid his hand on hers, so that she felt that he really meant what he said.
She sat fixed in deep thought; and her aunts, who had been miserable all through the conversation, began to speak of other things; but in the midst the shrill little voice broke in, "I know what!" and good- natured Lord de la Poer turned at once, smiling, and saying, "Well, what?"
"If you would help in the new aisle! You know the church is not big enough; there are so many people come into the district, with the new ironworks, you know; and we have not got half room enough, and can't make more, though we have three services; and we want to build a new aisle, and it will cost 250 pounds, but we have only got 139 pounds 15s. 6d. And if you would but be so kind as to give one sovereign for it--that would be better than remembrances and respects, and all that sort of thing."
"I rather think it would," said Lord de la Poer; and though Lady Barbara eagerly exclaimed, "Oh! do not think of it; the child does not know what she is talking of. Pray excuse her--" he took out his purse, and from it came a crackling smooth five-pound note, which he put into the hand, saying, "There, my dear, cut that in two, and send the two halves on different days to Mr. Wardour, with my best wishes for his success in his good works. Will that do?"
Kate turned quite red, and only perpetrated a choked sound of her favourite -q. For the whole world she could not have said more: but though she knew perfectly well that anger and wrath were hanging over her, she felt happier than for many a long week.
Presently the aunts rose, and Lady Barbara said to her in the low ceremonious voice that was a sure sign of warning and displeasure, "You had better come up stairs with us, Katharine, and amuse Lord Ernest in the back drawing-room while his father is engaged with us."
Kate's heart leapt up at the sound "amuse." She popped her precious note into her pocket, bounded up-stairs, and opened the back drawing- room door for her playfellow, as he brought up the rear of the procession.
Lord de la Poer and Lady Barbara spread the table with papers; Lady Jane sat by; the children were behind the heavy red curtains that parted off the second room. There was a great silence at first, then began a little tittering, then a little chattering, then presently a stifled explosion. Lady Barbara began to betray some restlessness; she really must see what that child was about.
"No, no," said Lord de la Poer; "leave them in peace. That poor girl will never thrive unless you let her use her voice and limbs. I shall make her come over and enjoy herself with my flock when we come up en masse."
The explosions were less carefully stifled, and there were some sounds of rushing about, some small shrieks, and then the door shut, and there was a silence again.
By this it may be perceived that Kate and Ernest had become tolerably intimate friends. They had informed each other of what games were their favourites; Kate had told him the Wardour names and ages; and required from him in return those of his brothers and sisters. She had been greatly delighted by learning that Adelaide was no end of a hand at climbing trees; and that whenever she should come and stay at their house, Ernest would teach her to ride. And then they began to consider what play was possible under the present circumstances-- beginning they hardly knew how, by dodging one another round and round the table, making snatches at one another, gradually assuming the characters of hunter and Red Indian. Only when the hunter had snatched up Aunt Jane's tortoise-shell paper-cutter to stab with, complaining direfully that it was a stupid place, with nothing for a gun, and the Red Indian's crinoline had knocked down two chairs, she recollected the consequences in time to strangle her own war-whoop, and suggested that they should be safer on the stairs; to which Ernest readily responded, adding that there was a great gallery at home all full of pillars and statues, the jolliest place in the world for making a row.
"Oh dear! oh dear! how I hope I shall go there!" cried Kate, swinging between the rails of the landing-place. "I do want of all things to see a statue."
"A statue! why, don't you see lots every day?"
"Oh! I don't mean great equestrian things like the Trafalgar Square ones, or the Duke--or anything big and horrid, like Achilles in the Park, holding up a shield like a green umbrella. I want to see the work of the great sculptor Julio Romano."
"He wasn't a sculptor."
"Yes, he was; didn't he sculp--no, what is the word--Hermione. No; I mean they pretended he had done her."
"Hermione! What, have you seen the 'Winter's Tale?'"
"Papa--Uncle Wardour, that is--read it to us last Christmas."
"Well, I've seen it. Alfred and I went to it last spring with our tutor."
"Oh! then do, pray, let us play at it. Look, there's a little stand up there, where I have always so wanted to get up and be Hermione, and descend to the sound of slow music. There's a musical-box in the back drawing-room that will make the music.
"Very well; but I must be the lion and bear killing the courtier."
"O yes--very well, and I'll be courtier; only I must get a sofa- cushion to be Perdita."
"And where's Bohemia?"
"Oh! the hall must be Bohemia, and the stair-carpet the sea, because then the aunts won't hear the lion and bear roaring."
With these precautions, the characteristic roaring and growling of lion and bear, and the shrieks of the courtier, though not absolutely unheard in the drawing-room, produced no immediate results. But in the very midst of Lady Jane's signing her name to some paper, she gave a violent start, and dropped the pen, for they were no stage shrieks--"Ah! ah! It is coming down! Help me down! Ernest, Ernest! help me down! Ah!"--and then a great fall.
The little mahogany bracket on the wall had been mounted by the help of a chair, but it was only fixed into the plaster, being intended to hold a small lamp, and not for young ladies to stand on; so no sooner was the chair removed by which Kate had mounted, than she felt not only giddy in her elevation, but found her pedestal loosening! There was no room to jump; and Ernest, perhaps enjoying what he regarded as a girl's foolish fright, was a good way off, endeavouring to wind up the musical-box, when the bracket gave way, and Hermione descended precipitately with anything but the sound of soft music; and as the inhabitants of the drawing-room rushed out to the rescue, her legs were seen kicking in the air upon the landing-place; Ernest looking on, not knowing whether to laugh or be dismayed.
Lord de la Poer picked her up, and sat down on the stairs with her between his knees to look her over and see whether she were hurt, or what was the matter, while she stood half sobbing with the fright and shock. He asked his son rather severely what he had been doing to her.
"He did nothing," gasped Kate; "I was only Hermione."
"Yes, that's all, Papa," repeated Ernest; "it is all the fault of the plaster."
And a sort of explanation was performed between the two children, at which Lord de la Poer could hardly keep his gravity, though he was somewhat vexed at the turn affairs had taken. He was not entirely devoid of awe of the Lady Barbara, and would have liked his children to be on their best behaviour before her.
"Well," he said, "I am glad there is no worse harm done. You had better defer your statueship till we can find you a sounder pedestal, Lady Caergwent."
"Oh! call me Kate," whispered she in his ear, turning redder than the fright had made her.
He smiled, and patted her hand; then added, "We must go and beg pardon, I suppose; I should not wonder if the catastrophe had damaged Aunt Jane the most; and if so, I don't know what will be done to us!"
He
was right; Lady Barbara had only satisfied herself that no bones had been broken, and then turned back to reassure her sister; but Lady Jane could not be frightened without suffering for it, and was lying back on the sofa, almost faint with palpitation, when Lord de la Poer, with Kate's hand in his, came to the door, looking much more consciously guilty than his son, who on the whole was more diverted than penitent at the commotion they had made.
Lady Barbara looked very grand and very dignified, but Lord de la Poer was so grieved for Lady Jane's indisposition, that she was somewhat softened; and then he began asking pardon, blending himself with the children so comically, that in all her fright and anxiety, Kate wondered how her aunt could help laughing.
It never was Lady Barbara's way to reprove before a guest; but this good gentleman was determined that she should not reserve her displeasure for his departure, and he would not go away till he had absolutely made her promise that his little friend, as he called Kate, should hear nothing more about anything that had that day taken place.
Lady Barbara kept her promise. She uttered no reproof either on her niece's awkward greeting, her abrupt conversation and its tendency to pertness, nor on the loudness of the unlucky game and the impropriety of climbing; nor even on what had greatly annoyed her, the asking for the subscription to the church. There was neither blame nor punishment; but she could not help a certain cold restraint of manner, by which Kate knew that she was greatly displeased, and regarded her as the most hopeless little saucy romp that ever maiden aunt was afflicted with.
And certainly it was hard on her. She had a great regard for Lord de la Poer, and thought his a particularly well trained family; and she was especially desirous that her little niece should appear to advantage before him. Nothing, she was sure, but Katharine's innate naughtiness could have made that well-behaved little Ernest break out into rudeness; and though his father had shown such good nature, he must have been very much shocked. What was to be done to tame this terrible little savage, was poor Lady Barbara's haunting thought, morning, noon, and night!
Countess Kate Page 5
